Whispering Into the Heart
by hap.e.daze
Summary: Compilation of several one-shots that follow the same universe - in chronological order. The first two chaps are from my other posts: First Night and Elephant in the Room. If you already read those, start with Chapter 3! My take on Mac/Claire's early life together in a series of one shots.
1. First Night

**First Night**

The box had been a hastily-packed container, full of random items that had accumulated at her place. He found a wrinkled sweatshirt he had forgotten he owned. He shook it out, trying to smooth it out. Giving up, he tossed it in the nearby laundry basket. One more thing to be washed. He found a photograph, framed in silver. They were both smiling, posing formally. He was in his dress blues, and she wore a simple red dress that coordinated perfectly, if one wished to look like an American flag. A patriotic couple, he smirked. Perfect once again. He shook his head and tossed it back in the box and ran his hands over his face. He knew they were over for good. He also knew he should be a little more upset at the surprising change in his life circumstances.

His eyes landed on a cigarette pack resting on the kitchen table. Without allowing himself the desire, he tossed that into the empty garbage. He paused and briefly considered reaching back in. That was a full pack, he scolded himself. Instead, he grabbed the picture, tossed it in the garbage (frame and all), and pulled the white plastic bag out of the garbage can. He walked out of his apartment and took a few steps to the garbage chute. He hesitated for a brief moment, opened it and dropped the bag.

* * *

Mac shook off the offer of the cigarette a second time. His friend, Dave, a captain like Mac with a bit more than three more years on him, smirked at the young woman who was holding out the cigarette pack. "Did he tell you he quit?" Dave quipped.

The woman, whom Mac had recently learned was named Claire, laughed a little and nodded. "He did. But he's staring at my cigarettes like they're crack cocaine or something."

"I've known Mac for nearly five years and he's quit at least five times," Dave announced. "As far as I know, the longest he's ever gone is four days."

His wife, Kelly, frowned in solidarity with Mac and said quietly to her husband, "Did you ever think that he might actually succeed if his friends didn't pressure him to smoke all the time?" The corners of Mac's lips pushed upwards, and Claire arched her eyebrows. "Besides, I think it's gross," Kelly announced. Her husband rolled his eyes at his wife, but placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

"Well, that's why I don't smoke then," he said and pressed a chaste kiss against her forehead. Claire shook her long reddish-blonde hair and placed her cigarettes in her purse. She leaned forward and tucked one side of her hair behind her left ear as the rest fell in her face. Mac watched her movement and thought he detected a slight shake of her hand. He furrowed his brow and his eyes slid from her hands to her face. She made eye contact with Mac and then looked away quickly. Mac realized, with a start, that she was nervous.

He swallowed and then leaned forward to reach for the pitcher of beer. "How 'bout a refill?" he asked her. She nodded, and pressed her lips together as she waited. He focused on her face and then glanced at Kelly. Claire's face was clear and smooth, while Kelly's held hints of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. He wondered, for a second, if Claire was even legal. She looked young.

But he had met her at the bar, nursing a beer – so she had to be at least 21, he consoled himself. Her "best friend in the world" - a sarcastic moniker, Mac had realized immediately - had abandoned her, she informed him wryly, in search of a Marine recruit who would take her home. Mac had turned slightly and watched the scene unfold before his eyes, a familiar one each Saturday night at this gritty bar on the edge of Camp Lejeune. Claire was petulant at her friend's decision, on the verge of leaving the bar alone. Mac had suggested she wait; it might not work out after all. She had wrinkled her nose at him, but instead of leaving, she pulled out a cigarette, flicked her lighter twice before she succeeded, and breathed it in, the heady scent of tobacco easing her anger.

The service was slow and Mac craved a cigarette so without thinking about it, he stared at the tobacco in longing until Claire had noticed. She had held out the pack, which Mac reluctantly had declined, and the pair made brief conversation before Mac invited her to join him and his friends.

He wasn't sure if he was flirting or being nice – maybe a little bit of both – but he really hadn't thought much beyond the brief invitation that had popped out of his mouth without forethought. He watched her sip at the beer, but she was looking elsewhere. Her eyes were hazel, rimmed in green, and he noticed heavy eyeliner with a hint of mascara and pale peach lip gloss. She was pretty, he concluded. And young, he reminded himself. Once again, she briefly met his eyes and then she looked away, perhaps in search for her friend. He followed her gaze, and he watched a young Marine pocket an 8-ball in the corner. Claire suddenly turned in her chair and asked Mac, "So … do you like music?" Mac nodded. She turned towards the amateur band serenading them from the stage with the bass turned up a bit too loud for his tastes. "Do you like this?"

Mac hesitated and then shook his head. "Not really. You?"

"They're not very good. But I'd like them if they were good," she said with a grin. She fingered the silver bracelet on her left arm and then said, "I like lots of different kinds of music, but lately I've been into the hair bands." Mac chuckled a little but nodded. "Last week it was blues," she teased.

"Yeah?" he replied. "I like blues, but I like jazz more. Coltrane, Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock. All the giants, you know?"

Now, she smiled wide. "I _love _jazz. I have a bunch of jazz tapes and records." Mac arched his eyebrows in disbelief. You didn't often meet jazz aficionados, especially under the age of 50. "Really," she insisted. "They're home in New York, though."

She twirled her hair around her index finger and then looked at Dave and his wife. Kelly, a bit buzzed by now, was leaning forward onto her husband's lap, whispering in his ear. Claire glanced at Mac and he shrugged. "They're always like this," he quipped.

Claire laughed and suddenly reached for his hand. Mac looked down at her red chipped nail polish and wondered what he was doing holding hands with a girl whose name he had known for about … fifteen minutes. But then he thought, _What the hell_. This was the first Saturday in four and a half years that he was, emphatically and officially, single.

Claire blurted, "You wanna dance or something?" Mac was surprised by her audacity but he nodded. "Okay," she laughed, waiting for him to stand up. He did and he reached down with his hand and pulled her to her feet. They walked onto the dance floor and she stepped into his arms.

* * *

"So," Mac summarized, handing her a bottle of water that he had just purchased from the 7-11. "You moved from Brooklyn to follow a guy and when things didn't work out, you decided to stick with your … career choice and stay here in North Carolina by yourself."

"Yes," she said smugly, opening the bottle. She followed Mac as he held the door open for her. "And I'm not going to be a checker forever. It's just a temporary job until I find something better," she defended.

Mac reached for her arm as she stumbled at the curb. She blushed when some of the water spilled down her shirt, but he didn't react. She pulled her arm back and stopped when Mac stopped. "Well what do you want to do?" Mac pressed.

"I don't know," she laughed, taking a long drink. "I haven't figured it out yet."

Mac smiled and then tilted his head. "I mean now. What do you want to do right now?" He pulled his jacket sleeve away from his arm and looked at his watch. "It's a bit after midnight," he announced. "It's getting late."

"What the hell? Do you turn into a pumpkin or something?" she asked, her eyebrows arched. Mac chuckled, bit the inside of his cheek and shrugged. "It's not late," she insisted. "It's a beautiful night for a walk, don'tcha think?"

Mac nodded and fell into line beside her. Despite the initial awkwardness at the bar, conversation was coming quick and easy with her. She was chatty and interesting, and a study in contradictions. She seemed smart but only had a high school degree. She spoke of a decidedly middle-class upbringing, yet she was barely making enough with her job at Wal-Mart to pay for a tiny apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. She was well-informed about current events, yet possessed a charming – if not slightly disturbing - naivete about people. She talked about going to Mass and following her parents' curfew and never drinking underage in high school, yet she smoked cigarettes, displayed a bit more cleavage than was appropriate and sported three extra piercings in her ears.

It occurred to Mac that Claire was everything Julie wasn't and, perhaps, a change in scenery was what was compelling to him. But this was only a walk, and just because Julie wasn't far in his past, it didn't mean he couldn't stay out past midnight on a Saturday with a girl.

"So what about you?" she asked suddenly.

"What about me?" he asked, buying time. She wanted him to talk about himself now and that, frankly, changed things. He enjoyed listening to her, assessing and analyzing her and trying to figure out the puzzle named Claire.

"Is this your life's dream? To be a Marine?" Her voice was laced with sarcasm as if there was no way military service was a choice. It wasn't surprising given her upper crust background and the fact that she had, clearly, followed a jarhead to boot camp followed by orders at Camp Lejeune. The young man's last few months would have been difficult and unpleasant, and they had ended with a dramatic breakup that left Claire in the lurch. Mac recalled his own beginnings as a Marine and cut the young man a break; he could understand why the recruit had questioned everything. But Mac had persevered, even thrived, as a Marine and had learned character and bravery and loyalty. He was part of a greater whole and his life had been forever shaped by the noble service he had performed. It wasn't just his life's dream; it had become a life's calling, and Mac couldn't imagine doing anything else.

Mac smiled and tucked his hands into his jean pockets. "Actually," he said, "Yeah. It is." She looked at him in surprise. She knitted her brow together in concentration but nodded, encouraging him to explain. Mac squeezed the back of his neck and hesitated. He looked in her eyes and she met his gaze confidently. This time, she wanted to understand. "I went to college – University of Chicago – and the whole time, I wondered why I was hanging out in a science lab with the biggest geeks on the planet when I could be saving the world as a Marine."

"You're serious," she said.

"You bet I am," he said with a nod. "So, after I graduated, I joined the service."

"What'd your parents say?"

Mac hesitated and then said, "Well, I think they might have been disappointed. A little. I mean … I don't know. My dad was in the Army so they think military service is good and worthwhile and all that." He waited before saying, "But they did help pay for a ridiculously expensive undergraduate degree, and I think they're wondering why it's not in use." Claire chuckled a little and Mac shrugged. "I don't really have a good answer for that."

"You probably could have joined after high school, right?"

Mac nodded. "Yeah, but then I wouldn't be an officer, and I like that too." He paused and then said, "Your guy, whatever his name is?"

"Tim," she informed. After a beat, she added, "And he's not my guy. He's my ex."

"Right," Mac said with a nod. "He enlisted then? Did he not like school? Or what?"

"He enlisted right after high school," she said.

Mac nodded, putting puzzle pieces together in his head. He stopped and Claire looked at him expectantly. "So," he said slowly. "How old are _you_?"

She winced and closed her eyes. She opened one eye and peeked back at him. Mac was amused. "Eighteen," she said quietly. Mac whistled. "And you, Captain Taylor?"

"Twenty-six," he said honestly. She nodded. Mac started walking again and Claire reached for his arm. He gave it to her, but already the mood had shifted. "You have a fake ID then?" he stated. She giggled a little, and Mac finally chuckled in return.

"You better not act like my dad," she scolded.

"No," Mac shook his head. "But don't call me to bail you out of jail either."

* * *

Claire and Mac sat side-by-side on the park bench. She kicked her legs back and forth as she leaned against Mac. The wind was rustling through the trees and a few leaves floated to the ground. It was November so it was cool, but Mac was from Chicago and this was North Carolina, and he more than tolerated near-winter in the south. Claire, though, was wearing his jacket – Mac was warm enough in just his fleece – and Mac watched as she inhaled yet another cigarette. The intoxicating scent would linger in his jacket but it didn't bother him. He _so _wanted that cigarette. "So how long were you together?" she asked quietly, the orange tip glowing in the darkness.

"Four and a half years. I met her when I was in Officer School. She moved here to be closer to me a few years ago."

"And you broke up this week," she summarized. Mac nodded. "Holy shit," she said, turning towards him. Mac laughed at her assessment. "So, are you okay?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Yeah," Mac said. "I'm fine." She stared in disbelief. Mac held his hands out as if to say it didn't matter. "It was a long time coming, to be honest. But it's … it's strange not to see her everyday."

"So you must have lived together, right?" she asked.

"Not officially. I live on base and …" She nodded, understanding one had to be married to live together on base. She turned more and tucked a leg under her. Her cigarette was still lit, and Mac watched the paper burn as she inhaled. "But I spent a lot of time at her place and it was a nice place to be," he said, still watching it.

"You loved her," Claire said seriously. She finished one last deep drag on the cigarette and tossed the butt.

Mac hesitated, shaking his head back and forth in ambivalence. He half-nodded, half-shook his head and finally admitted, "I don't know. Probably?" he questioned. "Maybe, I guess."

"How can you _not _know?" Claire asked, horrified. "Did she love you?" Mac didn't reply, his head replaying what he now concluded may have been a flawed relationship for quite some time.

"She was good for me," Mac said decisively. "I was deployed to Beirut when we were together and …"

"You were in Beirut? Lebanon?" she asked, interrupting him. Mac nodded. "During the bombings?" she questioned further. He nodded again. "Wow," she said quietly. Mac turned his head in wonder and then she said, "It's just one of those defining moments in my life. You know, like when Ronald Reagan was shot or when the space shuttle blew up. I remember Beirut too." Mac nodded. "So anyway," she continued, back to Mac. "Your girlfriend. What was her name?"

"Julie," Mac informed.

"So Julie was 'Miss I'll Wait for You' while you get the shit bombed out of you and then you come home and …" Her voice trailed off and she waited for him to finish the sentence.

"And?" Mac pressed, amused at her assessment.

"And what happened?"

"And nothing," Mac shrugged. "We just kept dating, and that was it."

"Was she … like how did she … how _was _she when you came back?"

Mac sat back and crossed his legs, surprised by the implicit knowledge that Claire, at eighteen, understood that it took a special person to be a partner to a deployed or returning soldier. He ran a hand across his face and slowly exhaled. "She was okay," Mac said. Claire waited. "It was hard for her," he said after a beat. "I was different, I guess."

"In what way?" Claire pressed earnestly.

Mac exhaled audibly and looked away in discomfort. After a second, he shook his head. He wouldn't go there. "She dumped me on Tuesday," Mac announced after a few moments. "It's Thanksgiving next week and she's tired of going home without a ring on her finger, so it was time to get over my 'commitment issues'," he said, making air quotes around the words, "Or, it was time to move on."

"So she moved on," Claire said.

"Pretty much," Mac confirmed.

"You didn't want to marry her then."

Mac shrugged and finally shook his head. "No. I guess not." He waited a beat before saying, "But I still miss her."

Claire squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry you miss her."

* * *

"So how many tattoos do you have?" Mac asked, amused, yet not at all surprised that the young woman had bragged of ink. She giggled and pulled him closer to her. Her hand was looped through his arm and she had zipped his jacket to keep away the wind. It was nearing three in the morning, the darkest hour of the night, Mac always thought, and with that, the coolest hour as well.

"I have one on my hip," she said slyly, and Mac rolled his eyes. "That one is a little dragon."

"Cliché," Mac winked.

"Not this dragon," she retorted quickly. "The other one is behind my shoulder." She waited for a few moments and Mac was silent. She clearly wanted him to ask about it, so he didn't. He was enjoying the game. She cleared her throat and Mac raised his eyebrows. "You swear to god you don't have one?" she teased.

"I don't have one," Mac insisted, the corners of his lips turning up. He didn't mean to smile; he was telling the truth. He was just enjoying the conversation and he found he couldn't stop smiling.

"You do too," she said, eyes wide, mistaking the smile for teasing deception.

"I don't," Mac insisted, laughing now. She narrowed her eyes and looked into his. Mac struggled to impose a serious expression on his face.

After a moment, she nodded. "Well, I thought all Marines had tattoos."

"You thought wrong."

She leaned into him and gushed, "I'm having such a good time. I don't think I've stayed up this long talking with anyone in … like forever. You're just … I like talking to you." Mac liked talking to her too, but, ever in his mind, was the fact that this woman was eight years younger than him. Legal, yes. But barely. And any sort of relationship would be inappropriate, at best, and Mac didn't do inappropriate relationships. They could talk, maybe even be friends, but that was it. That was it, he repeated to himself.

Suddenly, Claire turned to him and said, "Do you want to see my tattoo?"

"The one on your shoulder, I presume?" Claire giggled but nodded. Mac pointed towards a street lamp. "When we get over there, I'll be able to see better." She hurried over to the light, and Mac followed behind. They stood near each other, a faint yellow glow casting dark shadows around them. Claire took his jacket off and handed it to him. Then she pulled at her white v-neck t-shirt to display the tattoo. He looked, ignoring the fact that her bra was bright purple. He would have guessed black from the outline it displayed through the t-shirt. "It's cool," he said with a nod.

She arranged her shirt again, and started to spin the silver ring around her thumb. She was nervous, Mac realized, and he didn't know why. She asked, "Do you know what the symbol is?" He shook his head. "Do you _want _to know?"

Mac tilted his head. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked quietly, sensing it was a heavy topic for her.

Her eyes flitted to the ground and then back to his. He was still staring at her. "It's an adoption symbol. The triangle stands for the birth parent, the adoptive parent, and the child. The heart, obviously, is love."

"So are you adopted?" Mac asked.

"No." Again, Mac tilted his head. She swallowed and then said, "It's for the baby I gave up for adoption." Mac was surprised by the revelation. He chewed on his bottom lip and then nodded. She said quietly now, "I got pregnant in high school. I was planning to go to NYU, if you can believe that. But, Tim didn't have any plans. None really at all." She laughed a little. "That's why he was so fun, to be honest." Mac chuckled through his nose. "So, he said he'd join the Marines and we'd get married and be a little family. My parents were against it from the start. They thought I should go to college anyway and give the baby up for adoption. I could live at home the first semester, but move on campus for the second semester after the whole 'pregnancy thing' was behind me." Mac nodded in sympathy, urging her to continued. "But, of course," she paused dramatically. "Of course, I picked Tim. Stupidest move ever. It was fun to play house for a while. But as soon as we got down here, it was clear it wasn't going to work out."

"Why's that?"

"Well, maybe I just got my head on straight. I mean, I barely _know _the guy. It would have been pure insanity to get married." She pressed her lips together and then said, "I used to have goals, you know? And I gave all those up. And then I was just working at Wal-Mart so I could pay rent for the both of us and he would go out every night while I waited at home. And honestly, Mac?" He waited; the story was as old as time. "Honestly, I just looked around me and realized, I wanted my old life back. And I _certainly _couldn't have a baby with him."

"So you didn't get married, and you gave the baby up for adoption," Mac finished quietly.

"Right," she said with a small nod. "So," she said, a mock cheerful voice again. "So here I am. All by my lonesome in small town North Carolina. A thousand miles from home and from the college I wanted to go to. I don't have a degree and my job, as you know, sucks." She turned away from Mac but reached for his jacket. He handed it to her and she pulled it around her body. She zipped it up and reached into her purse for another cigarette. "And I smoke too," she said in irritation, flicking the lighter three times before it caught the cigarette. "I managed to stop while I was pregnant, but now I smoke all day long. I'm going to have yellow teeth and gross hair and … and cancer too."

She started to walk. Mac stood in place for a few moments and then jogged slightly to catch up to her. He grasped her left elbow. "So when did this all happen?"

"We broke up in August. And I had the baby in October," she said, not facing him. She took another deep breath on the cigarette.

"Like four weeks ago October?" Mac asked. Claire nodded. Mac blew air out of his mouth and then wrapped an arm around her shoulder to turn her before he pulled her close to him in an embrace. She hugged him back with one arm, the other one held at bay so she didn't burn him. He kissed her cheek and whispered, "Well then, I guess you've had one hell of a fall."

* * *

Claire sat in the front seat of Mac's car, the window open just enough for the smoke to snake out the window. They sat in the parking lot of a diner, the sun beginning to rise in the east. Claire was finishing her cigarette before they would go in for breakfast. She asked, "So after hearing my dramatic sob story, what do you think I should do?"

He hesitated before answering, "You should do what you think is best."

"You're starting to annoy me," Claire said, taking another long drag. He raised his eyebrows, amused. She seemed genuinely irritated. "I don't usually ask for opinions, but I asked for yours, and now you're going all Switzerland on me." Mac chewed on his bottom lip but waited. "I'm sorry," she laughed after a second. "I'm hungry and tired so now I'm crabby." He smiled, shaking his head at her. "Please, give me a real opinion."

Mac nodded once and then, reaching towards her hand, ordered, "Give me one of those cigarettes first."

"No," she said, pulling the pack away from him. "You quit. You need to make it one more hour without one."

"Then I get one?" he pouted.

"If you still want one. I'll give you one after breakfast," she said, nodding towards the clock on his dashboard. "You can wait that long, can't you?" Mac winced as if he was in pain, but he nodded. "So," she started again. "What do you think I should do?" She paused but before he answered, she asked, "Do you want me to put this out?"

Mac shook his head. "It's fine. Really. I can handle the way the nicotine is absorbed through my nasal passages and into my blood. By the time it reaches my brain and starts to tell me what I'm missing, I'll be okay. I'll be able to handle it."

"Good," she said, taking one more long breath on it. Then she tossed it out the window.

"Thank you," Mac said sincerely. She nodded. "Okay, so you _really _want my opinion?" he asked for confirmation as he opened the front door. She nodded, stepping out of the car herself. "I think you should go home then."

"To Brooklyn," she said, slamming the door.

"Yes," Mac said. He leaned against the car and rest his elbows on the top, folding his hands. "I think you go home and move in with your parents. It sounds like they're good people and they want you to move forward. So get yourself into school. Try a few classes, meet some friends. Don't let Tim-the-asshole ruin your life so you're working at Wal-Mart forever because you don't finish school."

"I know," she said softly. "It's just a pride thing," she said with a frown, tapping the pack of cigarettes on the top of the car.

"I get that," Mac said with a nod. "Damn, Claire, I want that cigarette," he asserted.

"Why'd you quit?" she asked, moving the pack to inside his jacket pocket.

"My dad was diagnosed with lung cancer this week," Mac said simply.

"Are you kidding me?" Claire exclaimed. Mac held his hands up matter-of-factly. She walked towards him and grabbed his arm. "So your girlfriend dumped you and your dad got diagnosed with cancer? All in the same week?" She was horrified.

"All in the same day even," Mac said with a nod.

Her jaw dropped a millimeter. "Did Julie _know_?" Mac smirked a little and then nodded subtly. "What a complete bitch," she said, eyes wide. Mac chuckled. Claire chewed on her thumbnail before asking quietly, "Tell me. Was she pretty?"

"Gorgeous. In a turn-heads kind of way too," Mac confirmed.

Claire stuck her tongue out. "I hate her."

Mac's eyes sparkled. "She was blond with blue eyes, and tall. When she wore heels, she was taller than me. She liked to call herself willowy."

"And she's modest too," Claire teased sarcastically. They entered the diner and Mac held out his hand, signaling to the server that they were a party of two. "Does she smoke?" Claire asked. He shook his head. "I bet she hated that you did."

"She nagged me all the time," Mac winked.

"You have to quit now," Claire ordered. "It's payback. Show her that as soon as she's in your rearview mirror, you can quit. Let her think it was the stress of dating her that led you to smoke." Mac smiled at her revenge-plot as they followed the waitress to the table and sat down. Claire opened her menu in silence and Mac nodded at the offer of coffee. Claire declined. While they decided between pancakes and French toast, Claire asked, "Does your dad smoke?"

"Yep," Mac said. "Like a chimney." Mac reached his hand behind his head and squeezed his neck as if to get rid of a pain. "And I don't think dying of cancer will change that habit either."

Claire closed her menu and leaned across the table. "Is it that bad?" she asked quietly, hearing him acknowledge his father would die of the disease.

"Is it ever good?" he replied with a sad smile.

* * *

Mac watched Claire as she helped herself to the maple syrup, fully saturating her French toast. After sliding the stainless steel pitcher of syrup towards him, she licked her fingers to remove the stickiness. "So," she said, a bite of breakfast already in her mouth. "This," she said, gesturing with her fork between them. "This is really bad timing." Mac raised his eyebrows and waited for her to explain. "You're looking for a rebound. I just had a baby, for God's sakes." Mac shrugged a little, but agreed with her. "By the way," she said casually, "I haven't even been medically cleared for sex." Mac cleared his throat and refused to make eye contact. "Does that make you nervous?" she pressed.

Mac raised his eyes and gazed at her. "I wasn't aware sex was on the agenda," he said, amused.

"Oh my god," she said, her eyes wide. "Did you think I meant that?" Mac went back to spreading butter on his waffles. He ignored her question. "I just meant that I'm not really in a position to be in a relationship," she explained. "And, I'm pointing out, that maybe you're not either." Mac didn't reply, but one corner of his mouth pushed up in amusement.

He took a bite of his food and then said seriously, "I guess we have to be just friends then."

"I guess so," Claire said. Mac heard the disappointment in her voice and was tempted to say more but remained silent, considering his words. "But everyone has to have that first relationship after a failed one, right?" Mac looked away; he wasn't going there with her. She bit her lip and then asked bluntly, "Is it because I have a ton of baggage? Is that why you're not interested in me?"

Mac blew air out of his mouth and then took a drink of his coffee. After a moment, he said, "I'm interested. Very." She smiled. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "But it's not going to work out," he said, looking in her eyes. "And I thought you were going home anyway, right?"

Claire took a deep breath and nodded. "Can we keep in touch at least?" she asked in disappointment.

"Yeah," Mac said. "You can write me letters. And I'll call once in a while." She smiled in disbelief. But she reached across the table for his bacon. "And why didn't you order your own?" he asked. She laughed and flipped her hair before she popped the bacon in her mouth.

* * *

He stood just outside her apartment door, holding his jacket over his arm. "So this is it," Mac said. She nodded. "I wasn't kidding," he said. "I really think you should go home."

"I know," she said. "I plan to. I just … I have to get through Thanksgiving before I admit to my dad that he was right." He nodded and hesitated a moment. Then, he kissed her cheek gently and turned around and walked away. He stood at the stairs and lifted a hand to wave when she called, "Wait." He stopped and she jogged a few steps to stand in front of him. She gripped his upper arms and then asked, "It's the age thing, right? That's why this isn't going to work out. You think you're too old for me." Mac's eyes flitted to the ground. "But I think you should know, I'm really mature for my age," she said. Mac looked up and met her gaze. Her eyes were sparkling, and Mac had to smile. Then she added quietly, "And I think you're the best guy I've ever met."

He smiled and then reached his hand out and touched her cheek. He pushed her hair behind her ear and said, "Claire, you're amazing. I've enjoyed every moment tonight." He swallowed and took his hand back. Then he confirmed, "But I'm too old for you."

She nodded. "I know," she whispered. Mac turned again to leave. She scratched her eyebrow and then asked, "You wouldn't change your mind or anything, would you?" He turned back, one step down, and he scowled at her in jest. "How about a kiss? I mean … if this is it, then it doesn't matter, does it?" Mac laughed, and Claire walked over to him. He looked at her awkwardly, still not making a move, and she said, "Fine then. You be the gentleman. And I'll be the kisser."

She leaned over and pressed her lips against Mac's, winding her fingers around his neck to find a home in his hair. She pulled him closer to her and rest her other hand on his cheek. After a moment, she pulled back for air and rest her head on his shoulder and hugged him. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm going to miss you."

* * *

Mac didn't turn back again, leaving the front of the building without another glance. But, as he started towards his car, he had to admit he would miss her too. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket and frowned when he found Claire's cigarettes. He turned back, intending to return them when she called from the second story window, "I'm quitting, Mac. I'm not dying of cancer."

"So why'd you leave me with these?" he asked in mock annoyance. "Did you forget about our revenge plot?"

Claire giggled, her laugh echoing across the parking lot. "I'm glad _you _remembered. I remembered that I promised you could have one after breakfast."

Mac exhaled audibly with a scowl on his face. He stopped at the nearest garbage can and dropped the pack. He looked back at her and extended an arm in a one hand wave. "Call me from Brooklyn," he said in farewell.


	2. Elephant in the Room

A/N: I enjoyed writing First Night, my version of how Mac and Claire met. I decided to clean up Part II - you can probably get by if you didn't read the first one but it is actually a sequel. Hope you enjoy. PS - I don't own the CSINY characters.

* * *

_The Elephant in the Room_

Mac stood at the pay phone, gripping the receiver in his hand. He pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper on which was written Claire's Brooklyn phone number. He wasn't sure why he was calling. He hadn't seen her in six months after all and had only talked to her twice. They hadn't spoken since she had moved to home in December, an entire five months ago, and Mac felt uncomfortably shy about calling her at her parents' home. She had, however, written him letters since the move, and while he didn't get one _every _week, Mac had assembled a collection of fourteen hand-written notes.

They were always heartfelt, sometimes poetic but sometimes surprisingly blunt. She mostly used blue ink on white notebook paper, but sometimes she used crisp cream stationery with a navy blue monogram. One of her letters started on such stationery – in red ink – and ended on the back of a napkin. It amused him more than she knew. Her handwriting was always neat when she started, but usually ended in a scrawl. Her signature was often just a "C". Sometimes she added, "XOXO".

Mac rarely wrote letters himself, but he made an exception for Claire. Once again, he didn't know how she had come to occupy a place in his head, and why he was bothering with letters to a nineteen-year old. And yes, that meant she was still a teenager, he reminded himself. But in the letters, Mac felt he was speaking to a soul mate – He wrote about his father's illness, but with that, he also wrote about the formal, distant relationship he had with the man. There was no tension between them; there was simply little emotion. He was haunted by his inability to bridge the gap. Claire urged him to try, told him to speak from the heart, maybe even write a letter, she encouraged.

Occasionally, he philosophized in the letters. He had never second-guessed himself as a Marine, but his father's illness had called everything into question. Maybe he should be home, helping his mother. Maybe his dad really wanted that. Maybe he wanted him to dedicate his life to academia. Maybe that would make him proud. Claire's reply was swift: _Why do you care so much about what your dad wants if he doesn't want to tell you?_ Blunt honesty, Mac had to admit. _Live your own life, _she ordered. Then she added a smiley face.

He often wrote the letters between the hours of 1 and 3 in the morning when nightmares stole his sleep. He spoke of the insomnia to Claire, described physical scars that remained after his deployment to Lebanon, admitted to emotional ones that lingered beneath the surface. Claire replied by telling him she wouldn't engage in armchair psychology, but if he really couldn't sleep, would it be so bad to talk to a doctor about it? Then she wrote that if she was ever lucky enough to spend another night with him, she could think of things to do during the night. Mac couldn't stop smiling after reading that letter.

It wasn't NYU, she wrote in her letters, but Brooklyn College was a good alternative. She adored being in class every day, surrounded by people who had goals. In one letter, she was going to major in Accounting. In the second, it was Classics. By the third, she was thinking Math or Finance. She lived at home – which she didn't like – but it was rent-free and mostly drama-free, she reported. Her parents were keen on ensuring she finished school and she wasn't going to complain about home-cooked meals, even if it did mean she had to babysit for her eleven year old brother once in a while.

Mac approved, although he didn't tell her that. It smacked of paternalism, and it would only emphasize the age gap between them. Instead, he encouraged her studies. By the fourth letter, he realized Claire needed no encouragement. The top of the Dean's List would be an easy accomplishment for her.

She wanted a _decent _summer job, and she was dissatisfied with the lifeguard / popcorn-maker at the movie theater / nanny for bratty kids options that awaited her. She wanted an _internship,_ she emphasized, something that would give her real experience for a real career. The only option she found involved little more than glorified filing services, but it was at one of the top accounting firms in New York. Her father encouraged it and seemed indifferent to the fact it didn't pay a dime.

Once in a while, Claire's letters were morose. She was lonely. Her friends had moved on six months before her, living in dorm rooms or sorority houses on wooded liberal arts campuses. She wondered about her child and if she had made a mistake in giving him up. Sometimes she had nightmares herself, she confided, and she admitted to crying herself to sleep on several occasions.

With every personal admission, though, Mac felt closer to her. He looked forward to the correspondence, and would smile when he saw the envelopes in his mailbox. At first, he would rip open the letter and start reading before he made it inside his apartment. But as the letters got longer, Mac found himself engaging in bizarre rituals. He would reach for a cold beverage, turn on some music, sit back in his chair and only then would he open the letter. He practically heard her voice as he read.

But, letters were just letters, and they had no plans to visit each other. So when Mac realized he was being sent to New York for Fleet Week 1988, he didn't call. He didn't know why he didn't call, other than he really hadn't had much notice of the trip. But when he was there, he felt as if he were deceiving her by being in the same city without telling her. He waited two days, carrying her phone number around, debating the options. Finally, in a what-the-hell kind of moment, he stood at the payphone, pulled out the wrinkled piece of paper, and punched the numbers in.

* * *

Mac stood outside the subway stop and watched the crowd pass. A train had just arrived, but Claire wasn't among the passengers emerging from beneath the street. He double-checked the intersection. This was it, he reassured himself. Claire said she'd come up these stairs. He stood straight, tempted to lean against the streetlamp as he waited, but he was wearing his uniform and he was a Marine officer after all. He didn't want to look slovenly. Suddenly, he felt a nudge on his shoulder. "Hey," the voice said.

He turned, surprised to see Claire. "I was waiting for you here," he said, nodding towards the stairs that led up to the street.

"I came out on the other side," she explained. "But you were easy to find, what with the uniform and all."

Mac chuckled quietly and did a quick once-over on Claire. A plain white tank, faded jeans and gray Converse sneakers. Big silver hoops hung from her ears. Red lipstick shimmered on her lips. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "You look great," he said.

"Really," she smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I made a big effort," she said in a sarcastic tone. Yet Mac guessed she had put in a little time deciding between casual and dressy. Mac himself had done the same dance, ending up in the uniform, as they had been encouraged. Her hair was darker now, Mac noticed. Not really strawberry blond, but more reddish-brown. Claire started walking without a word as to direction. He fell in line beside her and commented, "Your hair is different."

"It's not dyed anymore." She held the ends up and said, "The ends are still blondish, but the sun turned it a little pink so …" Mac nodded. When she showed him, he could see it. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of gum. She asked suddenly, "Have you quit?"

"Smoking?" he asked in response. She nodded. "Yep," he said. "Well," he hedged. "I did smoke again for a few days back in March but I quit again." She nodded but didn't comment further. Mac didn't think she smoked anymore either. She smelled clean and if there's anything an ex-smoker can smell, it's the intoxicating scent of cigarette smoke. Most people are repulsed by it. Smokers crave it even after they quit.

They stopped at a red light and the corners of Mac's lips turned up. "What?" she challenged.

"This is a little weird," Mac replied, smiling faintly. "No greetings. No, 'I missed you', 'it's good to see you,' or 'what have you been doing for six months?' Nothing. Instead, you're informing me you used to dye your hair." She pursed her lips together and raised her eyebrows, amused.

"I guess I didn't miss you," she said in a way that let Mac know that she had missed him. Terribly. He reached over and rest an arm across her shoulder and pulled her close. He had missed her too. After a comfortable moment, he released her and she asked, "Do you want to get a beer?"

"Aren't you 19?" he replied, tongue-in-cheek.

"That's not really your problem, is it?"

"I'm not buying," Mac replied. "I can't break the law while I'm in uniform."

"Oh my god," she laughed, wrapping her hand around his arm. "You're such a stickler for the rules."

He smirked a little but let her lead the way. A bouncer stopped them at the door of the first bar she saw. He read Mac's ID and nodded for him to enter. As Mac stood inside, the bouncer looked at Claire's, held it up to her face, scowled and handed it back to her. "Nice try," he said. Mac couldn't help but laugh at Claire's expression of outrage. The bouncer said to her sternly, "Not tonight. Take off or I'm calling the cops."

Mac turned sideways to squeeze past the bouncer and exited to follow Claire. The bouncer shook his head, letting Mac know the fake ID was really not that sophisticated. Or else, he was wondering what a Marine was doing taking an underage girl into a bar. Mac put that thought out of his head. Claire didn't speak and Mac could practically see the steam rising out of her ears. After a few moments, he said, "So now what?"

"Asshole," she mumbled.

"Me?" he teased, smiling a bit.

"Can you believe that?"

"It _is _the law," he commented, laughing now. She glared at him, but finally released a smile. "How often does that thing work?" he asked. She shrugged, unwilling to answer. It occurred to Mac that perhaps she didn't use it as often as she had let Mac think, and she was suddenly at a loss at what to suggest for entertaining him. The age gap suddenly felt very real. He bit his bottom lip. "Hey," he said quietly just as the silence was getting awkward. "Some buddies of mine said there's a carnival at Battery Park. You wanna check it out?"

"A carnival?" she asked dubiously. He nodded. She shrugged. "I guess."

"It'll be fun," Mac insisted. "Come on."

* * *

Claire slid closer to Mac and grimaced as the seat of ferris wheel rocked back and forth. Just when they were cresting over the very top, the ride had stopped, without warning, as carnival rides often do. "I hate this," she said, practically closing her eyes. She took a deep breath, and Mac could tell she really didn't like it. She was scared of heights.

He peered over the edge of the car and admired the lights from the boats in the harbor. "You don't like being stuck on the top of the world?" he asked, letting her know that he was enjoying the view. "Look," he nodded. Mac shifted and the car rocked. He pointed at the boats. "Wouldn't it be great to be on a boat right now?"

"Please don't move," she ordered quietly. "I don't want the seat to tip so we fall out."

"Honestly, Claire, principles of physics tell us that there is no way we can get enough leverage to rock the seat all the way back and tip over unless one of us actually stood up, in which case we'd be more likely to topple out of it than flip the seat over."

She exhaled and clenched her jaw, clearly nervous and not appreciative of Mac's geeky reassurance. "Do principles of physics also account for the fact that a drunk carnie probably put this ferris wheel together in less than three hours?" Mac smiled and rest his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "And I don't buy your hypothesis either. Have you ever tested it?"

Mac shrugged. Finally, he winked. "No. It's not a proven theory."

"So sit still," she ordered. Mac sat still. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail but her long bangs were falling over her face and Mac resisted the urge to move it out of her eyes, just for an excuse to touch it. He looked down, kids weaved in and out of the crowd, white lights were strung from tents, underneath were games that no one would win, food carts offered cotton candy and funnel cakes. It reminded him of the much smaller version of a carnival that was set up in the grocery store parking lot around the corner from his childhood home. It would pop up overnight one Saturday in May and stay through the steamy summer until it came down without warning in August.

"Have you ever been to Chicago?" he asked suddenly. She shook her head. "You should come sometime. It's a bit like New York." He paused a beat. "Only smaller," he added. "Seems like there are more quiet neighborhoods, I guess." Claire nodded silently. _There are quiet neighborhoods here, too_, he heard in her silence. Mac offered, "Maybe it's just I know Chicago, and I've really only been to Manhattan when I've visited New York."

"Do you miss it?"

"Little bit," he acknowledged.

"Do you get homesick?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head in ambivalence. "I love Chicago, though," he said finally. "If I ever leave the Marines?" She nodded and waited. "I'm going back home. I can't imagine living anywhere else."

She bit the inside of her cheek and then turned her face to him. "My baby lives in Chicago." Mac tilted his head and she nodded. "That's where the family was from." He looked at her with questioning eyes, asking silent questions without speaking. She shrugged. "It's … complicated. But, anyway, that's where they live."

"You have a picture?" he asked.

"A picture?" she asked in response. Mac nodded. She hesitated and Mac wondered if he had pushed too far. After a second, she shifted in the car for her purse. She froze when the car rocked and grabbed Mac's arm. Mac's eyes sparkled in amusement at her fear. She frowned, but slowly moved and opened the purse. She dug in her wallet and then pulled out a tiny snapshot, taken in the hospital. "That's him," she said, handing it to Mac.

The corners were frayed and the photograph was already yellowed. He glanced at Claire and hated that she had tears in her eyes. _Damn_, he thought. "I'm sorry," he said, handing it back fast. "I shouldn't have asked to see it."

"No," she said, blinking quickly. "I shouldn't be such a wimp about it." She laughed now and tucked it back into her wallet. "I'm an idiot, Mac. Just …" She shook her hands in the air and said, "New topic, Mac … And forget I'm a baby, okay?" He chuckled at her characterization of herself, but he rest his arm around her again and this time pulled her a little closer. She rest her head on his shoulder, and he adjusted his hand so his thumb gently brushed against the tattoo of an adoption symbol decorating her shoulder. He would change the subject, but he acknowledged her grief.

"You're not a baby," he said after a moment. She didn't reply but Mac felt her nod.

* * *

Claire kicked her legs back and forth at the wooden counter in the middle of the food section of the carnival. It was a temporary structure, a roof covered them, but there were no walls so they were open to the activity of the midway. Mac sat beside her, his dress shoes covered in sawdust from the carnival. Claire sucked at a root beer float through a straw while Mac was satisfied with a Coke. A plate of French fries was between them. A cheap blue elephant rest on the chair on the other side of Claire, the prize from having knocked over three floating ducks. "I didn't know you were a sniper," Claire said, pointing at the elephant.

Mac chuckled and shrugged. He pointed at one of the badges on his uniform. "For marksmanship. Stick with me, and you'll have a bedroom full of stuffed animals. I always win at the carnival," he said seriously. Claire giggled at his joke before turning quiet. Carnival music, kids screaming, parents issuing directives - All of it surrounded them, making conversation unnecessary. Mac enjoyed being near her, even when they didn't speak. He glanced at Claire and she seemed equally content.

He began to play with the straw wrapper. He rolled it into a little ball and then reached for Claire's wrapper. He rolled hers too. Then, he unrolled it and stretched it into a narrow line and smoothed it against the surface of the counter with his index finger. He looked up at Claire and she arched an eyebrow. "Sorry," he said, pushing the paper aside.

She laughed a little and then leaned forward. "What are you thinking about? You seem like you're in another world." He shook his head. _Nothing really. He just liked being with her. _"How's your dad?" she asked suddenly. Mac wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "Is he any better?"

"He's not any worse," Mac said with a nod. "And that's a good thing when it comes to cancer. You know, they're saying things like, 'treatable but not curable.'" He paused a moment. "He lost his hair and that was a little odd to see. I was home at Easter," he informed. "But, he's still working and that's huge," Mac acknowledged.

"Keeps him going, right?"

"Exactly," Mac said.

"Can I ask you something personal?" Mac smiled, expecting a question no matter what his reply would be. "You're not dating anyone, are you?" Mac blushed a little and looked away. "Are you?" she asked again.

Finally, he looked at her, assessing her. Her eyes were serious, so he replied seriously, "No."

She doused a French fry in ketchup and popped it in her mouth, smiling. "Do you think you could be persuaded to date me?" she asked. Mac laughed now. "What do you think?"

"I think you should just keep eating," he ordered with teasing eyes. She stopped chewing and waited, her expression serious again. Mac reached for her hand and squeezed. Then he ran his other hand over his face in frustration. He said honestly, "I don't know." She looked embarrassed and Mac added, "I've probably made a mistake here. I've been leading you on and letting you think …" He exhaled before saying, "I just really like spending time with you. But there's this big huge looming elephant in the corner of the room." She glanced at the blue elephant on the chair, trying to make light of his comments. Mac smiled and then he said quietly, "I'm too old for you. And this …" He gestured between them. "This thing can't work, Claire. I just …"

"Why are you so hung up on the age thing?"

"Why _aren't _you?" he countered. "You think if I stopped at your parents' house tonight, they'd be good with this? Did you even tell them you're out with me tonight?" She blushed and looked away. "I didn't think so," he said triumphantly.

"So what? That proves your point?" she said in irritation. Then she stood up. "You know what I think?"

"I'm sure you're about to tell me," Mac said, reaching for his wallet to pay for the food. He slid the slip of paper with the total closer to him.

"I think Julia was right," she snapped.

"Julie," Mac said, correcting the name of his ex-girlfriend. He began to count out the dollars. "And in what way?" he glared.

"You _do _have commitment issues."

Mac burst out laughing, with a shake of his head. "Just with her," he asserted, reading the bill more carefully.

"Liar." Mac exhaled, trying to focus on the conversation with Claire while calculating an 18% tip simultaneously. "Actually," she hissed. "I'm done."

Mac's smile evaporated. He sighed, dropping the money on the counter. He nodded at the server, pointing towards the money. Claire was already ten feet away and Mac jogged to catch up. He reached for her elbow and she snatched it back. She looked at him and announced, pointing at him, "I think I'm done begging you to like me. If you don't like me enough to think –"

"Claire," Mac interrupted.

She turned away and kept speaking. "If you don't like me enough to think this is worth it, then I'm not going –"

"Hey," he said softly. "Stop, would you?" She stopped and slowly turned back to him. She arched an eyebrow. He sighed and stayed quiet, thinking about his words. Finally, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and offered a half-smile. "This is crazy," he said. She smiled and nodded. "I've seen you twice in six months and …" He ran a hand over his face before admitting, "And I can't get you out of my head." She smiled even wider. "I think about you all the time and I wonder what you're doing, how you're doing. When I can see you again." He took a deep breath before adding, "And I wonder how long I have to wait until this age gap is 'appropriate'." Claire laughed now.

She leaned up and kissed his lips. Mac didn't reciprocate, but Claire didn't care. "It's not going to be 'appropriate,'" she whispered. "Not until you're fifty and I'm forty-two. Then we're good."

"That's how long, huh?" Mac said, looking down at her.

She whispered, her hands on his chest. "That's how long you have to wait if 'appropriate' is important to you."

"That's a long time," he said, closing whatever gap was left.

Claire smoothed his jacket and then placed her hands on his biceps before sliding them down his arms to his hands. Mac gave them to her and she linked her fingers in his. "It's time for you to kiss me," she said. "We'll figure the rest out later."

Mac nodded. He took a step towards her and nodded again. "Yeah," he whispered. "Okay." He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. She reached for the back of his neck and Mac placed one hand on her face and the other one fell in her hair. He held her tight as his soft lips tasted root beer and French fries. She was intoxicating and Mac didn't want to break free. Finally, he stepped back, chewed his lip and whispered, "I don't want to wait that long."


	3. Issues

**_Issues_**

_Summer 1988_

Claire smacked her ruby-red lips together as she ran her finger over the silver frame. A slightly younger Mac Taylor stared back at her. An older gentleman – distinguished in a black suit and tie – sat in the front center of the picture. A woman in a blue dress stood behind him to the left and Mac stood to the right. The woman smiled brightly – her greatest accomplishments in life were within three feet of her. Mac allowed himself a half-smile; he wasn't frowning, but he was serious, a mood fitting the dress blue uniform that he wore for the portrait.

The older man's eyes were strict, maybe even cold, Claire thought as she picked up the picture, but she could see the resemblance to Mac. He was the disciplinarian who made sure Mac's homework was completed before he played outside, who kept Mac within a half mile radius of the Taylor family home, who grounded Mac when the teenager dared to roll his eyes.

The woman's eyes were softer and gentler. Her hand rest on her husband's shoulder, and Claire could see the tenderness even in the formality of the gesture. She was the one who placed Band-Aids on skinned knees, who read bedtime stories of cowboys and pirates, who cheered Mac at soccer games.

"What are you doing?" Mac called from the kitchen. Claire was waiting for a glass of wine, her first other than communion wine, and she heard him opening the bottle. In the privacy of Mac's on-base apartment, he no longer seemed concerned about following the law.

"Looking at your pictures." Her eyes flitted to the left of the picture – his watch, wallet, keys and wrinkled slips of paper had been tossed on the top shelf. She saw a receipt from Walgreen's and a post-it note with her flight information scribbled on it. He had the time wrong, she noticed, which was why he had been eleven minutes late.

"Do I have any?" he asked rhetorically. He appeared in the living room, holding two glasses of white wine, and he nodded. "That's my only one, I guess."

"Your dad looks … severe," she commented.

"He is," Mac said, standing next to her. He handed her a glass, oblivious to her lack of experience, and stared at the picture a moment. "It's a decent picture, though," he finally said, turning towards her. "Welcome," he smiled, holding his glass up. They clanked glasses and Claire took a small sip, testing the taste on her tongue. She was more of a beer-type of girl on the not-so-frequent occasions she had actually drank underage. Wine felt a bit more sophisticated to her, somehow fitting for her first visit to Mac's apartment in North Carolina. She looked at the glass as she ran her finger around the top of the rim. A distinct red lip-print from her equally red lipstick was left behind. She tried to wipe it off discretely, wondering if it was uncool to leave makeup on the glass.

"It's not real crystal," Mac said. She was confused. "The thing you're doing with your finger?" he explained. "You won't get a sound from these glasses."

"Oh," she said, annoyed that she had lipstick on her index finger now, more annoyed that he had watched her every move.

She changed the subject. "Did you ever write your dad a letter?" She played with her dangly earrings distractedly while he shook his head. "Why not?" she pressed. "You need to tell him what you're thinking. He's sick, Mac. You should tell him."

"What would I say?" he asked in response, moving towards the sofa.

He sat down and leaned back as Claire replied, "I miss you. I hope you're feeling better. See you soon." Mac shrugged and sipped at the wine. "How 'bout, 'Thanks for being an awesome dad'? You could write that," she suggested. Mac looked uncomfortable and shook his head quickly. _That's kinda awkward_, his expression said. "Speaking of awesome dads," she began sarcastically. "My father is losing his shit about me being here."

"I thought he might," Mac replied cagily.

"He drove me to the airport, though," she said smugly. "In exchange for an _interrogation _about _exactly _how I met you – I had to lie, by the way, because I couldn't tell him I was at a bar." Mac exhaled and shook his head, clearly worried about Claire's relationship with her family. "He was marginally impressed by the fact that you're an officer," Claire offered. "And fairly impressed that you went to the University of Chicago."

Mac shook his head in ambivalence. "That's something, I guess," he said.

"Less impressed by your age. And decidedly unimpressed that I was staying with you." Mac ran a hand over his face. "Let's just say he has issues with this," she announced, gesturing between them. Mac winced, clearly wishing he could solve that problem. Claire walked to the sofa and plopped down beside him, tucking her leg beneath her. She sipped at her wine; she liked the taste. She shrugged disinterestedly and said matter-of-factly, "He'll get over it." After a moment, she asked suddenly, "What do your parents think?"

"About what?" he asked numbly.

"About me being here."

Mac creased his forehead and finally shrugged, "I didn't tell 'em." She blinked in surprise, and Mac quickly explained, "I mean … I said you were coming to visit, but I didn't mention anything about where you were staying, and …" Mac laughed now. "They were very happy that I have someone in my life." Claire smiled as Mac finished, "But they also assumed that you're not staying with me." After a beat, he added, "It _is _against the rules, you know."

"Look at you," Claire teased, leaning close to him. "Your parents believe you're a good boy, huh?" Mac smiled but arched his eyebrow and nodded. They did. "I am certain you have used that good reputation to your advantage more than once?" Mac nodded again, amused by Claire's teasing. "Well my parents have no illusions about me. They know I'm bad."

Mac laughed out loud and Claire squeezed his hand. "That's why they worry," Mac said.

* * *

Mac was seated at his desk, reviewing some papers when Claire stopped in the doorway to the bedroom. He wore a USMC t-shirt and faded blue jeans and his hair, still wet from the shower he took just before hers, was somewhat mussed. "Hey," she said softly, comfortable in her crisp cotton pajamas that she had bought new for the occasion of sleeping in Mac's apartment. The long flowy pants were not overtly sexy, but they were flattering. Braless, she wore a modest tank, for once happy that her chest wasn't any larger. Her skin was clear of makeup, the deep red lipstick having been wiped away on Mac's white towels. That would require explanation, she knew. Or at least some stain spray. A topic for tomorrow. She finger-combed her hair and waited for him to finish reading. He marked his spot with a penciled checkmark and looked over his shoulder.

"How was the shower?" he asked.

"Fine," she replied. "It was warm; that's what I wanted." Mac nodded. "It's late," she said after a moment's pause.

He nodded and then, looking away, he asked, "How do you want to do this?" She arched an eyebrow, not understanding the question. He nodded toward the bed and answered his question with an answer. "If you want, you can sleep here and I'll take the sofa."

Claire smiled a little but walked all the way into the room. She sat on the edge of the double bed and reached out to touch his leg. "Or you could sleep with me," she said quietly.

"I could," Mac replied slowly. He bit his lip before saying, "I just … don't want to assume anything. We haven't really talked about this."

Claire nodded seriously, following Mac's lead when it came to the mood. But she took in Mac, fully dressed after his nighttime shower, and she tilted her head sideways. Shouldn't he be wearing pajamas? Or boxers and a t-shirt? Or sweatpants or whatever else that he wore to bed? Upon that observation, she realized he was waiting for her to dictate the sleeping arrangements. It was positively adorable, and it made her warm inside.

When he looked back at her, Claire offered a smile. He smiled back, but his eyes were confused, still wondering about her preferences. "Are you talking about sex?" she asked mysteriously. Mac chuckled, but he also blushed and looked away. He stood up and looked out the bedroom window. She walked to stand beside him and took in the view of the parking lot. She laced her fingers with his and rest her head against his arm. "You maybe don't know this about me," she started quietly. He looked at her with questioning eyes, expecting a deep revelation. "But when it comes to sex," she began, pausing dramatically. "I'll do anything," she dead-panned.

Mac's eyes went huge and Claire's laugh echoed off the walls. He took his hand back and pretended to be angry with her, slightly bashful at being the target of her sex joke. "Oh come on, Mac," she teased. She walked towards the bed and rest her hand on the bed covers. "It's just a bed." He arched his eyebrows. "And I'm tired."

"So go to bed," he ordered gently, the corners of his mouth curving up.

"So take me to bed," she countered with far more confidence than she felt, daring him to come closer.

Claire stood still, watching him approach. She never dropped eye contact, and when Mac was just in front of her, he rest one hand on her waist. He brushed his thumb across her face, his fingers resting in her wet hair. He leaned forward and kissed her, holding her close to him. Claire was startled by the intensity, but she kissed him back, pulling him impossibly close. His kiss was certain and definite, reflective of his self-assured nature and unlike the kisses they had shared beneath a carnival tent a few weeks ago. Those were tentative and hesitant. _Would this really go somewhere? _they were asking. But yes, it had gone somewhere. Claire had traveled a thousand miles to see him, assumed she would sleep in his bed, and done nothing less than offer herself to the man.

Oh sweet jesus, she thought, fear creeping in. No one had ever wanted her the way Mac seemed to, and it scared her. She pulled back, just a millimeter, but Mac noticed, of course he did. He stopped kissing her and looked at her with questioning eyes. And her stomach dropped with the reality of the power she held. It was up to her, he was waiting, and she needed to make a decision.

She exhaled, and she heard the shaking breath, and she hated it. She was competing with nothing except ideas of what Mac must want, all jumbled thoughts circling inside her head. Would he find a naïve near-virgin teenager, hesitating with every touch? Or would he find a witty, confident woman about to blow his mind? The reality, she knew, was somewhere in between, just beyond the wisps of previous shame and current confusion.

She wanted to be mature like the other women Mac must have dated before her, ready to back up her confident banter. She didn't want to be thinking about her stomach pooch, her surprising lack of experience, the fact that she wasn't on the pill and what if he didn't have …

Claire finally looked away. She took some deep breaths. She wanted to be what he wanted, but in the end, she was just Claire, an ordinary girl from Brooklyn who had never had a glass of wine before that night. She turned her head and spoke softly into his neck, her turn to be bashful. "You're gonna think I'm all talk after what I just said, but I'm not … really sure if tonight's the night." Her voice halted as she spoke, betraying her intense nerves at disappointing him.

He nodded, his lips moving down. He ran his hands through her hair, turning her face up to his. His eyes were understanding when his level answer surprised her. "Well you gotta be sure."

Claire smiled and then wrinkled her nose and closed her eyes in embarrassment. Mac kissed her eyelids and she opened them. He was still looking at her, not even the tiniest hint that he was upset. "I wish I was sure," she announced, laughing as Mac's hands flitted beneath her pajama shirt and tickled her even though it wasn't his intent. "Because I have the feeling that you know how to rock my world." He smiled at her joke but he stilled his hands.

He pulled his hands back. The tears prickled behind her eyes at what she perceived as rejection. Oh my god, she thought. She was going to cry. "It's fine," he reassured. He was sincere, Claire knew, but the mood was broken, the touch interrupted. He took a step away, turned his back to her and pulled off his t-shirt, draping it on his chair. Claire noted a small, perfectly square scar on his lower back and she tilted her head to examine it, hoping the distraction would keep the tears at bay. He unzipped his jeans and swapped them for a pair of sweats. He turned back to her, tying the drawstring. Claire forced her eyes to his face and bypassed the burn scar on his chest. He took a step towards her again and rest both hands on her chin. He kissed her one more time and then whispered, "Please don't cry."

"I'm not crying," she insisted.

His lips lingered on hers and he whispered, "Good. Because I think I can rock your world anyway." Claire laughed out loud and wrapped her arms around his neck, practically jumping in to his arms. Any tension that Claire felt was gone. She felt him laugh too, and she thought about saying something. That it wasn't him, that it was her, that she had issues, that she would be okay in the morning, that she was nervous, that …

"This is just new," Mac whispered. "It'll work itself out." She nodded; that was all that needed to be said. He tugged her towards the bed. "You want me to sleep here?" She nodded, a broad smile on her face. "Okay," he agreed, smiling himself.

* * *

Mac sat at his desk chair in the hour just before dawn. He was leaning back in the chair, sipping at a cup of coffee, a novel resting in his lap. It had been months since a woman had slept beside him in bed, and longer if one considered the fact that Mac had rarely spent a full night with Julie. She hadn't liked that he slunk away in the middle of the night, Mac knew, but if he couldn't sleep anyway, he'd rather be in his own place, with his own books, his own music. Plus, he didn't want to account for a twenty-five minute commute from her rental in the morning. His on-base housing was walking distance to his job.

He was surprised to realize that even after five years, he could nearly count the number of times Julie had stayed in _his_ bed. Overnight guests were against the rules, he told himself, but the truth, he suspected, was that he just didn't want to let her in. His place was his, not theirs, and he liked it that way. Yet, Claire was different and it wasn't just that she didn't have anywhere else to stay. There was guest housing, hotels, friends of friends. She didn't need to be here with him at five in the morning. Yet Mac had never considered any other arrangement.

He glanced back at her. She was sleeping on her side, her jaw open a bit, her wild hair splayed across the pillow. She had kicked the sheet down in the night and her pajama pants had slipped low on her hip. A tiny portion of that dragon tattoo was exposed on her left hip. Mac was intrigued, even though he had teased her that it was a cliché tattoo for a cliché location. And it was. Still, he wanted to run his finger over it the way he had traced the tattoo on her shoulder.

He suddenly remembered a teenage conversation with his father. Mac was taking a girl to Homecoming – her name was Tanya. His dad had never met her, but in a teasing moment at the dinner table, he had held up two fingers for two questions. "Does she smoke?" Mac shook his head. "Does she have any tattoos?" Mac shook his head. "Then you can go."

Claire claimed she quit, but Mac had smelled the smoke on her jean jacket as she eased into the front seat of the car. She didn't have a pack on her, she finally admitted, but she had bummed one off a guy as she waited for him to pick her up. _You were late!_ she snapped. _I was stressed out,_ she defended. She smoked, and she had two tattoos. His dad wouldn't approve, Mac thought in amusement.

He tried to read, but his mind wandered. She was unpredictable. On one hand, she was mature. She had given birth for Christ's sake, Mac knew she wasn't a virgin. But she stood in her Marine boyfriend's apartment, asked him to sleep in the same bed with her, but told him, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn't ready. The contradictions unsettled him, reminded him to be patient and gentle. Yet, she needed no coddling, able to find her voice when she needed it.

Claire's eyes were open when Mac looked again. "Can't sleep?" he asked gently, his voice low so as not to be abrasive in the early hour.

"Jet lag," she whispered.

He arched his eyebrows and commented, "Same time zone. Try again, babe." She smiled a little and pulled the crisp sheet and linen blanket over her face, inhaling Mac's scent that lingered. "It's early," he said. "You don't have to get up."

"Come here," she whispered from beneath the covers. Mac moved towards the bed and kneeled beside it, his hand on top of the lump beneath the blanket. She poked her head out and pushed her hair out of her face. She reached her hand out and hesitantly touched the large burn scar on his chest with her index finger. Mac sustained eye contact with Claire but didn't react. She took her hand back. "This is what happened when you were in Lebanon, right?" He nodded. She reached out again, this time gently smoothing it beneath her fingers. "Did it hurt?" she asked quietly.

"Like a bitch," he said. She started to pull back, worried she caused him pain, but Mac reached for her hand. "It doesn't hurt anymore." He pressed her palm against his chest before releasing it.

Claire observed the lighter-colored skin, outlined by raised edges. She traced it with her index finger. "It's bigger than I thought it would be." He nodded. "Tell me what happened."

How to answer. He looked away and then sat on the edge of the bed, collecting his thoughts. Mac felt her piercing gaze try to force the reluctant memory to the surface. He resisted. He'd tell Claire the same abbreviated story he told everyone else. He got hit with shrapnel. He was injured. He's okay now though. End of story. He had learned to detach from the memory, and he was mostly successful at keeping it where it belonged. Yet it occasionally rose up to torture him with nightmares and guilt. Mac knew its hidden power rest partly in its secrecy. Speaking of it, telling those he trusted, might eliminate some of its unwelcome influence.

If only he could start talking.

"Mac?" He looked at her. She bit her lip and then whispered, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Yes, she should have asked. And he should answer. But he couldn't. Not now. Not yet. "No, no," he reassured her, the opportunity to talk already fleeting. "It's fine. It's just … it was a burn. From shrapnel," he explained in a disinterested manner. "And, um, it was pretty bad. At the time. It's fine now," he hurried. "It's just a scar."

"What's on your back?" she asked. She didn't miss a thing, Mac realized.

"That was where they took the skin for the grafts," he said, his voice level. She blinked in confusion. He explained, "I had two skin grafts for the burn." She nodded slowly. Mac repeated, "It's okay now, though."

"Were you scared?" she asked, her palm resting flat on his chest, almost covering all of the scar. He looked at her and exhaled. He wanted to grip her hand and tell her he had never been more scared, never before believed he would die, never before thought he might already be dead. He wanted to tell her that he had seen the inside of a man's stomach before he had died in his arms, that he had smelled searing flesh before he realized it was his own, that he had heard panicked screams before he realized that they came from beneath fifteen feet of rubble. He had been terrified, and he didn't know how to tell her that he had come home changed in ways he didn't yet understand. He would never, ever be the same.

"Were you scared?" she repeated.

"Maybe a little," he said instead. "But it's okay now."

* * *

Claire sat across from Mac at the table and he passed her a plate of pancakes. She piled two on her plate and he slid the maple syrup her way. "The good stuff, huh?" she asked, noticing that there was no plastic bottle of Aunt Jemima's maple-flavored high-fructose corn syrup. Instead, he served 100% pure maple syrup from a glass container.

"Only the best," Mac smiled. Then he added, "My mom sends it in her care packages."

"What?" Claire asked in dismay, setting down her fork. He nodded. "Care packages? Are you kidding me?"

He shook his head. "What's wrong with that?" Mac asked defensively.

"How old are you?" she asked, even though she knew.

Mac smiled now. "26."

"And your mother still sends you care packages."

"Pretty much every month," he admitted unabashedly. She blinked rapidly and shook her head. "Maple syrup. Kleenex. Gum. Homemade cookies," he informed.

"How 'bout condoms and cigarettes? Does she send you those too?" she teased. Mac chuckled now. "It's because you're an only child. You know that, right?" Mac simply smiled and reached for the maple syrup. "It's not normal," she asserted.

"If you don't like it, I can keep the syrup for another guest."

"Shut up," she said, grabbing it out of his hands. He smiled in amusement as she poured a generous service of syrup over her pancakes. She took a bite of her breakfast and sighed. "Delicious. The food is great," she complimented. Mac nodded in acknowledgement. "I do have to say, though, that until now, I never would have guessed that you were spoiled." Her eyes sparkled. She knew he would deny it.

"Spoiled?" Mac scoffed. "I wasn't spoiled. I was damn lucky I had a scholarship to go to school. My mom and dad didn't have a dime for my tuition, just fifteen bucks a month for pizza."

Claire rolled her eyes and pretended to play a violin. "Poor you… One pizza a month. Sniff, sniff," she teased, pretending to wipe the tears from her eyes. Mac sighed. Once again, he had fallen for her joke.

But not to be beaten at her game, Mac arched his eyebrows. "I'm guessing you get a pizza a month from your dad," he countered.

Claire nodded. "I do," she admitted. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asked quietly after a beat. He nodded. "I'm pretty spoiled," she said, still whispering. Mac laughed now. Claire didn't laugh. "I'm serious. My parents pay my tuition. They give me spending money whenever I want it. They give me book money. Pay for my car insurance. Gas money." She chewed on her thumbnail and said, "It's kind of embarrassing, to be honest. Especially when I'm pretty darn sure you're self-sufficient."

He shrugged. She bit her bottom lip and pushed the pancakes around her plate. "Well, you're younger than I am," Mac said, hating himself for saying it. She looked sad but she nodded. He continued logically, "You're still … in school. You're not working yet. They love you. Want you to have a good life. They've got the money so they use it on you. It's normal. That's what parents do."

"I guess," she said quietly. "But this age thing?" she asked quietly. Mac nodded subtly. "I didn't think it mattered, but sometimes it feels like a big deal to me."

He ran a hand through his hair and looked back at her. At last, he nodded. "I know."

* * *

"_Die Hard_?" Claire asked. "Or _Young Guns_?" She furrowed her brow as she read the marquis sign above them. "Or we could see _Cocktail_," she asked hopefully. Mac shook his head. "Okay then, so which one?"

"You pick," he said quietly.

"Well, I pick _Cocktail_," she replied.

He stood in line for tickets and said wryly, "Of course. Because it's the only one I don't want to see."

The corners of her lips turned up and she retorted, "No. I picked it because you wouldn't give me an opinion."

Mac smiled and nodded towards her. "You know that's passive-aggressive."

"Yep," she replied smugly. "I know. And I'm pretty good at that."

"Good thing I'm not histrionic," he replied. "Two for _Cocktail_," he said to the woman at the movie counter.

"What's that mean?" Claire snapped as Mac handed her the ticket. He looked at her, startled by the change in tone. "Are you saying I'm histrionic?" she pressed.

"No," Mac said slowly, dragging the word out. "I'm saying histrionic personalities don't mesh with passive-aggressive ones." She arched her eyebrows. "Psychology 101," he said. "Common personality types …" His voice trailed off as Claire exhaled. "Claire," he said quietly, grabbing her hand. "I'm teasing you. It's a joke. That's it. We're seeing _Cocktail_. I don't really care that much."

She stopped and hissed, "I don't want to see _Cocktail_ anymore." Mac sighed. "You've been spending all weekend saying we should do what I want to do. Well, what do _you _want to do?" she asked. Mac blinked. "It's starting to annoy me, honestly," she said.

"I can tell," Mac snapped, grabbing the ticket back from her. "Fine," he said. "I want to see _Die Hard_."

"Yuck," she replied. "That sounds … violent." Mac frowned. "So what's your plan anyway? Are we supposed to sneak in the back of the theater to see Bruce Willis shoot up a thousand people? We already bought the tickets for _Cocktail_."

"Claire, I swear to god, I'm about to lose my mind right now," Mac said irritably. He held the two tickets up and said, "Pick the goddamn movie and let's end this conversation."

"I want to see _Cocktail_," she said.

Mac clenched his jaw and nodded towards the entrance of the theater. He watched her snag two seats and he snapped, "I'm getting popcorn." When he returned, he handed her a soda and said, "No complaining. It's Diet Coke." She giggled and Mac finally released a smile.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm crazy sometimes." He took a drink from his pop and offered her the popcorn. "Are you mad at me?" she asked quietly.

"No," he replied. He still sounded grouchy though. He added, "I don't understand exactly what happened, but that's okay as long as it's over."

"It's because you're a guy," she replied. He nodded with a small chuckle. She gripped his hand and said, "You know I have issues, right?" He didn't answer, unwilling to begin another circular conversation that he couldn't win. "You know Tim?" she said out-of-the-blue.

"Your ex-boyfriend?" he asked, for clarity. Claire nodded. "What about him?"

"He _was _histrionic," Claire said quietly.

"Well I bet that was fun," Mac commented wryly. He held the popcorn out for her. She took a handful and started to eat it, one popped kernel at a time.

"He would get so mad at me," Claire said all of a sudden. "Like, for example, he got mad once about the mail being disorganized." Mac furrowed his brow. "I don't know. Just crazy mad that he couldn't find the phone bill exactly when he wanted it. Which was weird anyway, because it was my phone bill. He lived on base. Whatever. So I refused to help until he was nicer to me." Mac shook his head at the lunacy of it. "And then he went crazy," she said, matter-of-factly. Mac looked up, his eyes boring into hers. "He wasn't violent," she hurried. "But he yelled at me. And he called me stupid and fucked-up." Mac frowned and Claire said, "I was. I was fucked-up with his baby." He ran his hands over his face and groaned at her joke. "But, I almost married a guy who thought I was stupid. Can you believe that?"

"You didn't, though," Mac said with a nod. "So that's good."

"I remember standing in my apartment after he went off on a rant one time, and I remember asking myself if my dad had _ever _raised his voice to my mom." Mac smiled. "And you know what? I don't think so. Not once. I'm sure they've had disagreements but I've never heard them. He'd do anything for her. And ..." She shrugged a little. "I guess I'm a bit of a romantic. 'Cause that's what I want too."

Mac nodded and squeezed her hand tightly. "Well, I get some points for seeing this movie with you, don't I?"

She laughed quietly, and leaned her head into his shoulder. She looked back at his earnest eyes and nodded slowly. "You're so good to me," she said. Mac blushed a little. "So when I go a little ape-shit crazy and start second guessing you or playing some kind of weird passive-aggressive game where you're supposed to reassure me but I'm going to tell you to leave me alone?" Mac smiled as she spoke. "Just remember, I have _issues_."

Mac leaned over and kissed her forehead. "We all do, Claire."


	4. The Meaning of Life

A/N: I don't own the CSI:NY characters.

* * *

**The Meaning of Life**

Claire looked out the window as the plane began its initial descent into Raleigh-Durham International Airport. She pulled her hair back into a messy ponytail. Her hands shook as she did it; she was nervous, hoping Mac would await her. It had been nearly three months since she had last left him. They had spoken on the phone at least three times a week, but as she sat in the middle seat halfway back in coach-class, she couldn't help but have a niggling of worry and concern when it came to the long-distance relationship. It had now been a year since she had met him. And in one year, they had spent two nights staying up talking and one weekend, three months ago, in his apartment. Five days total. No more.

The first time she had flown down to see Mac, her father had tried to stop her. This time, it was her mother. _You've only known him for five days_. Claire was quick to defend her boyfriend, pointing out that her mother didn't understand the bond they had forged. _He's a Marine, Claire. He lives by himself. He's so much older than you. What are you doing? _But Claire simply replied that he had promised to be true to her. And Mac did what he said he'd do. _Claire, _her mother sighed_. Why would he wait for a 19 year old kid when he's surrounded by girls his own age?_ In response, Claire had thrown out the words that she knew would sting her mother the most: You never think I'm worth it. You always think the worst of me. Did you ever consider that Mac might actually care about me? Her mother stopped fighting with her, instead hugging her and telling her to call if she needed anything. Still, in the tight embrace, Claire heard another message: _Call when you figure out I'm right._

She left feeling angry with her mother. She was wrong. Of course she was. But now that a thousand miles of air separated her and her mother, the words haunted her. What if he _wasn't _there? What if her mother was right? What if things _were _different now? What if he found someone else? What if? What if? What if?

Claire swallowed the remainder of her water and placed the empty bottle inside her backpack stuffed with three college textbooks. Her hands shook as she zipped the bag and her stomach fluttered. She was so nervous she could barely breathe. Mac said he'd be waiting, she told herself. Even if he wasn't interested any longer, he wasn't going to strand her in the middle of an airport. She consoled herself with thoughts of honorable Marines rescuing poor damsels in distress, and she _knew _he would be there.

She wanted this relationship to work so bad it hurt. She never believed in love at first sight before, but when she thought about it, she had fallen in love with Mac the first night they met. She loved the way he spoke with his eyes and not his voice, the way he could read her thoughts and know how to answer her before she asked, the way the serious Marine could say something light-hearted when she least expected it. She was a jeans and sneakers kind of girl, and he was attracted to her anyway. Effortlessly, he made her feel feminine and pretty. She was sarcastic and sharp but he held his own. He was amused by her, but she wasn't a game to him either. She was 100% herself while in his presence, and he was the only one who really knew her.

She smiled as she came to a realization: She was in love with him, and she knew he loved her too. He had never said it, she had never said it, but it didn't matter. She _knew _it. Of course, he would be there, she told herself. She took a deep breath. There was nothing to worry about.

* * *

Mac's feet were crossed at the ankles as he rest against a supporting column just outside her gate. _NY LAGUARDIA, _the sign said. _ON TIME._ He crossed his arms across his chest and forced himself to stand still. Without thinking about it, he had begun a rhythmic tapping of his foot, a sure sign of nerves. He wasn't sure why his stomach was tied in knots at her upcoming visit. He wanted her to come, he had invited her after all. In fact, he had issued a standing invitation and then the couple had worked to find a jointly acceptable weekend. Mac was busy with work, and Claire was busy with school, and her parents were busy too, and sometimes Claire had obligations with them, and so it had taken three months.

He expected things would be different this visit. Claire had announced on their last telephone call that she was now on the Pill. Mac hadn't known what to say so he said, "Okay," and that was about it. He guessed she was telling him something else, like maybe that she was ready to take things to another level. Although Mac was ready – he was _more _than ready – he swore to himself that he wouldn't push her. She was still nineteen years old, and Mac reminded himself that when he turned nineteen, he was still two years shy from losing his own virginity. It boggled his mind when he thought about how young he felt that dark snowy night in a Chicago dorm room.

But although it took up an inappropriate amount of space in his brain, sex wasn't the only thing on his mind. The holidays were approaching and Mac wouldn't mind spending them with her. Visiting his parents seemed out of the question; Mac's funds wouldn't allow each of them to independently travel across the country to visit them, especially only weeks after Claire's trip here. On the other hand, he knew her parents weren't on board with this relationship yet, and Claire wouldn't, and shouldn't, ask them for financial assistance to travel. They were never rude when he called, and Mac was always polite and deferential. But they weren't happy either, Mac could tell. It was in the way they muffled the sound when they called Claire to the phone. It was in the way her fifteen year old brother teased, "Your Marine's calling. Don't worry, I won't tell Dad." And it was in the way her eleven year old brother told Mac, "Hold on, she's taking it in her room."

It made him uneasy; Julie's parents had liked him and he got along well with her father. Sometimes he actually missed the man, which was disturbing when he realized he rarely thought about Julie. Nonetheless, Claire had a good family, he knew that, and perhaps because of that, this relationship bothered them. _As it should_, Mac told himself. They worried about her and although he wouldn't tell Claire this, he expected them to be troubled about the way she was unabashedly spending entire nights alone with an older man in his apartment. And once again, Mac's thoughts had circled back to sex. _Get a grip_, he told himself. _Wait for Claire's lead. _

He was impatient now. The plane had landed, and he never understood why it took a good ten minutes to get the jetway lined up before passengers could deplane. He was tapping his foot again, chewing his lip. _Would she ever get here? _ Then a flight attendant opened the door, and people started to come out.

He pushed off the column when he spotted Claire emerge from the jetway. She made eye contact with him and raised her eyebrows in casual greeting. He lift his left hand to wave. He knew she'd play it cool. No running across the airport to jump into his arms a-la _Officer and a Gentleman_. Instead, he got what he wanted: Three steps closer to him, and she released the best smile on the planet. He nodded and smiled as she walked towards him slowly. When she stood in front of him, she dropped her backpack on the floor. At last, she said, "You're not late this time."

"You gave me the right schedule this time," he retorted.

"You wrote it down wrong before."

"I don't think so." Claire chuckled quietly and then she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck. His hands slid around her waist, resting on her lower back and they shared an embrace. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered.

"I've missed you," she breathed into his neck.

"Yeah," he whispered. She was about to let go when his arms held her tighter. He lifted her off the ground and spun her a bit. He felt her laugh as he whispered, "I can't begin to tell you how much I've missed you."

* * *

Mac held the door open for her and gestured that she should go first. "Go ahead." Claire stepped across the threshold and stopped, just inside. She started to shrug off her denim jacket, looking around for a place to toss it. Mac stood behind her and rest his hands on her upper arms and offered to take her coat.

She took a step into the apartment and pulled out her ponytail. She leaned over to run her fingers through her long hair, fluffing away the mark left by the hair elastic. Mac emptied his pockets, dropping some change and a business card in a small bowl. Claire watched, knowing these were rituals he did every night when he returned home. When he looked up and caught her gaze, he smiled.

"So," she said, trying to think of what to say as Mac moved to the kitchen. "You have a nice place."

"It's the same as before," he called. After a short moment, he returned, holding a glass of wine for her and a glass of something amber for himself. She accepted and sipped twice before setting it on a bookshelf. He walked over to the entertainment center and searched for some music. "Have a seat," he urged. When he crouched down to rummage through a shelf of records, he pulled his shirt out of his pants, clearly more comfortable with wrinkled shirttails at this time of the day.

Claire ignored him and wandered into the kitchen. She opened his refrigerator, examining the contents. Nothing interested her so she closed it. She ran her fingers over the kitchen table, noticing his mail was stacked in a pile. An empty water glass was in the sink, a pair of shoes kicked off near the bedroom door.

Music suddenly filled his apartment; Mac had selected an edgy choice in Prince, and it amused Claire. She glanced at Mac and pretended to be offended. "Captain Taylor, are you aware that Prince tops the Filthy Fifteen?"

"The what?" Mac replied, his eyebrows furrowed. His eyes sparkled though; just the phrase falling off her lips amused him.

"The Filthy Fifteen." He waited for Claire to clarify. "The top fifteen filthiest songs on the planet," she explained with mock seriousness. "They should all be banned," she deadpanned. "Because they turn sweet, innocent girls into naughty ones that want to have premarital sex."

"Mmm hmmm," Mac replied, his eyes sparkling as he approached her.

"Is that what you're trying to do?" she asked, resting her hands on his shoulders. "Convince me to have sex with you?" Claire dared him to reply with her eyes. After a moment of obvious desire where Claire expected a kiss, he looked away without doing it. She was surprised, but she didn't think he was embarrassed by her audacity. He was just slowing the pace.

Somehow, that didn't surprise her. Her hands moved to the collar of his shirt and she unbuttoned the top button while Mac looked beyond her at the wall. Then she moved her hands down to smooth the fabric over his chest. When he turned his face back to her, she could smell whatever he was drinking on his breath. "What is that?" she asked, nodding towards his glass on the counter.

"Scotch," he replied. "Have you ever had it?" She shook her head. He reached for the glass and handed it to her. It felt heavy and cool in her hand. She sipped, surprised by the taste. She grimaced a little as she swallowed. It burned in her throat but it felt warm going down. Mac chuckled quietly as she handed the glass back to him. "Do you like it?" he asked.

His gaze was intense, so interested in what she had to say, so curious in her answer. He was inches away and once again, she knew he wanted to kiss her. "I like it," she replied quietly, her eyes not leaving his.

He handed her the glass. His hand touched hers and he stopped, his face only inches away from hers. She took a second sip and Mac watched. This time, it went down smoothly, coating her insides in warmth. She released a breath and waited. The moment was charged with electricity, until finally, he leaned over and kissed her cheek, his thumb caressing her other cheek. "You're okay, right?" he breathed into her ear.

She grasped his hand and squeezed. His question was beyond adorable, and it turned a sexy moment into something romantic. He pulled back and looked in her eyes, but she held his hand to her face. "I'm okay," she whispered. "I'm nervous," she added honestly, "but I'm okay."

"Nervous of me?" he asked, confused.

"Of us," she clarified. "And what's happening here." He furrowed his brow and took a step back. She took a step forward but couldn't help but blush. She added, "I'm nervous of what's going to happen." Mac waited for her to clarify. "Maybe later. Maybe right now."

Claire giggled now, breaking the tension. Mac laughed too, biting his bottom lip as a hint of blush rose to his cheeks. He held his hands out, palms up. "I have no agenda here," he asserted.

"Right," she teased, holding the glass of scotch by her face. She couldn't help but smile as she took a long sip, a pro by her third swallow.

"I don't," he insisted, walking all the way to the other side of the room. "Honestly," he said, trying to be serious but the smile wouldn't leave his face. He held his hands up defensively and leaned against the counter on the other side of the kitchen. "I am …" He chewed his bottom lip. Then he turned suddenly serious. "Call me old-fashioned, but I just want to spend time with you."

"Uh huh," Claire said in disbelief. Mac nodded. "Just spend time together? Like stay up all night and listen to music and talk about the meaning of life and what makes the world turn. That's all you want to do?"

"Pretty much," Mac said.

She looked at him and then shook her head, a smile on her face. She kicked her shoes off, set her glass on the counter, and crossed the room in two paces. She reached for his arm and unbuttoned his cuff. She rolled it up over his forearm and reached for his other arm. Mac looked down at her as she did the same thing, then she stepped between his legs. Mac didn't move, waiting for her. She kissed his lips and whispered, "The meaning of life?" He nodded, the moment charged with electricity. "You are such a liar," she whispered. His eyes shone as she continued, "But you're sweet for saying it."

She took another step closer until her body touched his. He swallowed but made no attempt to initiate contact. Claire was surprised by his reaction. Despite her slight nerves, she was trying to be clear and unambiguous. As she looked into his eyes, she suddenly knew why he stood immobile. His desire was obvious; he wanted her. But he refused, absolutely refused, to push her. It would be her lead tonight or it wasn't going to happen. She released a deep breath and reached her hand up to his face. She traced his cheek tenderly and cupped his jaw with her hand. Mac's eyes didn't leave hers. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his before she whispered, "I want you. Do you know that?"

Mac leaned in, softly brushing his lips against hers. She reached a hand up behind his neck and held him close to her. Sensing her willingness, Mac deepened the kiss, his feet closing the last few inches between them. She stepped forward too, and he had to back up until he hit the counter and had nowhere to go. She opened her mouth to him and felt a flutter in her stomach. His hand moved up her side and brushed across her breast and she sighed into his mouth. He tried to pull his face away, seemingly worried that he had gone a step too far. Claire held him close and reached for his hand.

* * *

He was taken off guard, frankly, by the level of emotion he felt. After their first hesitant moments in the kitchen, the pair was more confident. She made herself comfortable beside Mac on his sofa. She leaned back into the corner, resting her feet on his lap. Eventually, as they discussed music and movies – and the meaning of life, Mac laughed – his hand rest on her calf. She switched to water, and Mac too, so when she sat up and made the first move, he knew she was sure.

Claire pulled him towards the bedroom, and he welcomed it. They stood, face-to-face, as Mac slowly undressed her. Her hair framed her face perfectly, her shoulders were soft as he brushed it off them. He ran his hands down her arms and he pulled her gray t-shirt over her head. Then he found the zipper on her jeans and she stepped out of them. She didn't wear fancy lingerie but rather simple cotton underwear and a surprisingly lacy bra. When he looked at her face, he saw the faintest hint of nerves remaining in her eyes. He smiled at her and lightly outlined her hip with an index finger, accepting her exactly the way she was. "You're beautiful," was all he said.

Standing before him, she slowly pushed his shirt off his shoulders and then she lifted his t-shirt over his head. She ran her hands across his chest, her index finger tracing his scar. They didn't need to talk about it anymore but Mac felt emotion in her touch and could have sworn that the scar – five years old now – healed a little more under her fingertips.

The sex was romantic and slow, yet altogether intense. Afterwards, Mac lay on his back, one arm extended above his head, his eyes closed, his breathing still labored. Claire slid her body, coated with a light sheen of sweat, over his and grasped his hands, linking their fingers. She kissed his lips, then his chin, then his neck, finally resting her head on his chest and said, "I want to stay here forever." Mac squeezed her hands, her words saying it all.

* * *

Mac pushed the key into his apartment, trying not to make noise as he unlocked the door. It was still early, not yet seven, and he hoped he hadn't woken Claire when he had crept out eighty minutes earlier. Their sleep hadn't begun until well past two yet Mac found himself staring at the ceiling long before six. Instead of tossing and turning, thereby increasing the chance of waking her, he had dressed silently in the dark and headed out into the cool fall for a strenuous run. He enjoyed the sunrise while he ran, and it sent his thoughts spiraling in philosophical directions of love and life and all that goes along with that. It merited at least one lengthy conversation with Claire. Preferably over a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes.

When he walked into his apartment, though, she was propped on the sofa, a textbook beneath her nose. "You wear glasses," he commented in surprise, greeting her.

"And you're sweaty," she retorted. He arched his eyebrows, smiling already, as he shut the door behind him. "I'm just saying, if you say something obvious, I'm going to do the same." He walked across the room and noticed a cup of steaming coffee on the table. Half of his desired meal was prepared. Her glasses were perched on the edge of her nose and he leaned over to see what she was reading.

"Chemistry," he announced.

"Chemistry for non-science majors," she clarified.

"I liked chemistry," he said.

"Of course you did," she grinned, still immersed in the book.

"Are you studying?" He sat down on the coffee table near her as she nodded. "For a test?"

"On Monday," she replied. "Mid-terms next week. Then we're on break for Thanksgiving."

He nodded before saying, "So perhaps this wasn't the best timing for a visit, I guess."

She shrugged before shutting the book. "It never is, Mac." He wrinkled his nose and ran a hand over his face. He was about to apologize until she shook her head. "It is what it is."

He nodded a little and then picked up her coffee. He took a sip and then grimaced. "Did you make this?"

"It's not so good, is it?"

"I had better coffee in Beirut." She smiled as he sniffed at it in disdain. "I really don't think the water to coffee ratio is right. How many scoops did you use?"

"Two."

"You need four if you're making a full pot."

"But you always make it too strong, so I thought … Well, I thought I'd ease into it slowly."

"Okay," Mac teased. "So hot water with a hint of caffeine." He slid it over to her. "I think I'll pass and make my own."

She leaned forward and looked at his gray t-shirt, soaked from his shoulders to his stomach in sweat. She touched him hesitantly and asked, "How far did you run?"

"Eight miles," he said casually. She widened her eyes. "It took me over an hour. I'm not exactly the speediest runner."

"Would you be offended if I asked why you do it?" He laughed when she clarified, "I know, I know. Something about being a Marine and having to fight for our freedom and such." He waited for her teasing to stop. Claire was suddenly serious and she said, "Have I ever told you how proud I am that you're a Marine?" Mac tilted his head in surprise. "I am. I never knew there were people like you until I met you. And I just want to tell you that I am so proud to know you and be your girlfriend."

Mac smiled and leaned over her on the sofa. He kissed her lips and said, "I think I'm the one who's proud to be with you." He paused before saying, "And I'm sorry it's so hard to sort out when we see each other."

"Yeah," she said, running her hands down his sweaty arms. She kissed his neck and licked her lips. She tasted salt from his sweat. "About that. I have a crazy idea." Mac put an arm on each side of her head and rest his weight on his elbows, his body leaning over her. He arched his eyebrows and waited. She placed her hands on his chest through his shirt and drummed it with her fingers. Then she asked quietly, "What if I moved here?"

Mac exhaled and looked in her eyes. He blinked a few times in surprise. Then he chuckled at her question. He shifted on the sofa so he was on his side. With a bent arm, he propped his head up and placed his right hand on her stomach. He swallowed and saw Claire look away from him, anxious and embarrassed at having asked a question that was so ridiculously ludicrous that Mac couldn't even answer. He nodded and then he said quietly, "Would you believe I was just thinking about that?"


	5. FUBAR

I don't own any CSI:NY characters.

I don't know if I like writing angst, but that's what happened... Just as an FYI, I don't like this chapter! :-) But it's done and I _do_ think it's relevant to this made-up universe so here it goes. Thanks for reading!

* * *

_**FUBAR**_

It was a ridiculous idea, Mac had to admit. Claire was not yet twenty years old and was thinking about uprooting her entire life to live on a military base on the off-chance that a brand-new relationship with Mac would work. She was a smart girl, and despite a difficult past, she was making progress towards a degree. Mac couldn't – and wouldn't – interfere with that. He also knew her family wouldn't approve of any relocation and would likely wage an intervention unlike any that Claire had seen before. Her father would withhold funding, her mother would threaten to cut off support and Mac wasn't sure any relationship was worth threatening the very fabric of Claire's family.

Mac expected that Claire knew it too. Coining an old military acronym, the idea was FUBAR. So, she stopped talking about it, and Mac didn't push, and they took a step back from the topic. They didn't take a step back from the relationship, however. While holiday plans were too complicated for visits – Claire's family was taking a trip to California and Mac was on his way to visit his parents – the couple _did _have plans for the spring. Claire had three day weekends in January and February and had already reserved tickets to visit Mac in North Carolina. They were considering a lengthier trip together during her spring break. _Maybe Jamaica_, she had half-begged with eyebrows raised. _Or Florida? How 'bout Disney_? she asked. _Or, I know_! she said, _The Bahamas_. _Have you ever been there?_

He had never been there but it sounded good, Mac thought as he got off the bus two blocks from his childhood home. He had already taken the Blue Line nearly an hour to dizzy downtown Chicago and had sat on the Red Line for another forty minutes as he headed south through the depressed areas of the inner city. Then he had taken an unheated CTA bus for seven miles through the blue collar neighborhoods of the southeast side.

The small bungalow stood in the shadows of the steel mill where his father still worked. The neighborhood was blighted and in decline but his Catholic high school was nearby and still well-respected. Students commuted from all over south Chicago for the honor of attending there. The community was tight-knit and Mac knew when he walked to the convenience store to run an errand for his mother, he would run into at least one childhood friend.

The sky was gray, as was typical for December in the Midwest. Mac zipped his coat, no longer used to the brutal wind that was Chicago. He wondered how Claire was doing in California as he hopped a few puddles, trying to avoid the slush. It didn't work, and his feet were cold and wet by the time he stepped to the door. Icicles hung from the gutters of the home but Mac saw Christmas lights from the tree just inside. He was smiling already as he pulled open the front door. It was Christmas in Chicago, and Mac was home.

* * *

Mac chewed his bottom lip and squinted as he looked at the ceiling. The gray circular shadow surrounding the only light in the bathroom was unmistakable. It was darker near the center and got lighter as it expanded outwards. Mac's mother stood in the doorway, silently watching her son as he balanced himself on the top of a closed toilet seat and reached up with an extended key. He easily poked a hole in the soft plaster. "Be careful," Mrs. Taylor said.

"That's water damage," he announced. He slid an index finger around the light and then rubbed his fingers together as he checked the texture of plaster.

"Can you fix it?" she asked.

Mac hesitated and asked, "Has Dad seen this?"

"He doesn't come upstairs too much," she replied. Mac looked down at her, surprised. "The stairs are tough for him now and since he's working still, he wants to conserve his energy." Mac nodded slowly at his mother who looked away from his piercing eyes. Frowning, he turned back to the ceiling. Mac angled himself precariously so he could reach the stain on the other side of the light. He touched that part and then returned to a more upright position and hopped off the toilet.

He said to his mother, "There's no point in replastering if the roof's leaking."

"So you think it's the roof?" she asked skeptically.

"Probably," Mac said, squeezing her arm as he passed her. "I'll check on it," he said with a nod. "Don't worry. It's not that hard to fix."

"Mac?" she called quietly. He stopped as he was about to head downstairs. "There's a couple more spots in our bedroom." Mac nodded. "Will you …" He turned around and approached his mother as she spoke. "They're in the corner of the room. Near the window. I'm worried about the window in there too. It seems like …" Her voice trailed off and Mac arched his eyebrows, waiting. "It seems like the wood is rotting," she finally said quietly. "I didn't tell your father. He'll just worry and …"

"I got it, Mom," Mac assured her. "Just let me see."

* * *

The ice cold metal stung Mac's palms even through his gloves as he climbed the ladder to the top of his parents' house. December was a less than ideal time to be on top of a roof, he knew, but the water damage was unmistakable and frustratingly urgent, Mac realized. He wasn't as handy as his father, Mac having preferred academics to his father's efforts at teaching Mac his way around a toolshed. But Mac had spent every summer since seventh grade working, and jobs for boys generally revolved around lawn work, cleaning or maintenance. Mac preferred the maintenance ones, searching for the mathematics and physics problem in every task. So this wasn't his first time on top of a roof.

It was, however, his first time on top of his _parents' _roof and he didn't like what he was finding. He pulled at a few shingles in the offending locations. They peeled off easily. Mac carefully eased himself over to the gutters and downspouts. Not surprisingly, they were clogged; Mac could take care of that, but he noticed a telltale sign of shingle debris as well. He sat back on the roof and shook his head. His jeans were soaked, his hands were numb, his ears were frozen. Carefully, he maneuvered his way back to the ladder and slowly took the rungs one at a time. By the time he had replaced the ladder in the garage and cleaned off his boots so as not to trek mud into the home, he had been outside nearly 45 minutes in sub-freezing temperatures.

When he walked into the living room, his eyes flitted from his mother to his father. His mother stood with her arms crossed, her chin lifted in defiance. His father sat in a rocker, an oxygen tank beside him although he wasn't using it, his jaw was clenched. "What's going on, Mom?" he asked.

"Nothing," his father said, answering for her. His mother looked at the ceiling in frustration. She blinked a few times in anger, Mac saw, and she ran her hands over her face. She did all of this behind Mr. Taylor's back, and it didn't take a rocket science to realize she was angry with him.

Just as she was about to exit the room, she said, "Why don't you hear what Mac has to say about the roof."

Mac's eyes flitted from his mother to his father warily. Mac could hear his father's voice in the silence, _Why is that kid messing around on the roof?_ The answer, of course, was that his mother asked him to, but she quickly left the living room. Mac sat down on the sofa across from his father. He blew on his hands to warm them up and waited for his dad to speak first. His father simply looked at him, expecting Mac to say something. "Sir, you need a new roof," Mac announced at last.

"No, we don't," his father replied.

Mac took a deep breath and repeated, "Respectfully, sir, you haven't been up there. You need a new roof. It's probably older than me. The water damage in the bathroom is most noticeable because it's around the light. But the real problem is what's in the bedroom. The window is rotted, Dad, from a water leak from above it. You have to replace the whole thing. It's getting moldy from the moisture, and the hole is getting big enough for mice or critters to get in."

"So we'll replace the window," he said.

"Dad," Mac said in frustration. "You're not hearing me. You need to replace the roof," he said slowly. "The shingles are peeling off easily. Some of 'em are brittle. There's – "

"I'd like you patch it, Mac," his father said forcefully.

Mac ran his hands over his face. When he looked up at his father, he said, "I can patch it, sir," he said. His father nodded. "And it'll last until spring," Mac said in irritation. "But you need to tear off this old one and get …"

His father began to cough and Mac stopped speaking to wait for him to get his breathing under control. After nearly thirty seconds as Mac waited, his father spoke again, "We're not doing that. And that's final, Mac." He turned away from Mac and began to watch the television. "Will you turn it up on your way out?" he asked.

Mac stood up and nodded, angry at having been dismissed. As he walked out of the room, he slapped at the television, turning it off.

* * *

Mac had been home for all of six hours and he had already realized that life was very much _not okay _at the Taylor home. _Where does he sleep? _he had asked his mother. We just pull out the bed on that sofa, she said. _So he works but can't go upstairs? _She simply nodded. _What does he do when he's home? _Reads some books. Plays some cards. Watches a lot of television. _How is he feeling? _He's tired, Mac. This is hard on him.

It was hard on his mother too, Mac knew. The door to the den was closed. His father was presumably sleeping, so Mac sat in the dining room as his mother set a turkey sandwich and glass of milk in front of him. She sat across from him with her own and pushed a bag of chips towards him. "I don't know what's going on with Dad," Mac said, reaching for a handful, "'cause he's completely illogical. But I'll patch the roof for now. Come spring, we'll get a new one."

"How much does that cost?" she asked quietly. And in an instant, Mac understood his father's reticence. He didn't know how long he could work. He didn't have disability insurance, Mac knew. He would take early retirement instead, and they would live off what they had saved. He didn't have life insurance and the modest savings needed to provide for Mac's mother after his death. Mac scratched at his head and realized that at the tender age of 27, he had more financial security than his parents did after years of hard work.

"Probably 10 grand," Mac estimated off the top of his head. She blinked in surprise. "That's Dad's problem, right? The cost?" Mac said, gesturing towards the closed door. She nodded slowly. "Mom, this house is your best asset," Mac said sensibly. "You have equity in it and you need to keep it up. When Dad's gone," he said fearlessly, "you can decide if you want to stay here or sell it and move elsewhere. But you can't sell it if you have a thirty-year old roof."

"We don't have access to ten thousand dollars," she said quietly. "We just don't. We don't know what's coming in medical expenses because not everything is covered by his insurance, Mac. And once he's done working, that's it. There's no more money coming in. You know that. If your father says we're not getting a roof, we're not getting a roof. That's how this works. We have more important things to spend our money on."

"Listen to me, Mom," Mac said, leaning forward. "Get him to the VA. Stop this nonsense with private insurance and his own doctor and oncologist," he ordered. She blinked in surprise at Mac's stern words. "I know you don't want to do that. I get that it's not in this neighborhood, and I know he likes his doctor. But these medical bills are bleeding you dry. He's _dying, _Mom. It doesn't matter what doctor he sees anymore. Do you understand that?"

"Of course I do," she said in anger. "I'm the one who spends every day with him. I know better than you do," she snapped. "I'm the one driving him to chemo, making sure he still gets to work on time, feeding him what he can eat. I'm the one saving the money so we can pay for his medication. I'm the one who put up the Christmas tree and the lights so our son comes home to something nice." Mac exhaled slowly. "Don't come here twice a year and tell me what to do," she said in anger, holding her index finger up.

She blinked back tears, her hands shook in anger, and Mac took a deep breath. He had never heard her so angry and it unsettled him. He felt bad for her, but he was angry at his father. With or without cancer, the roof needed replacing and his mother was left trying to sort it out. "I'm sorry," he said quietly after a moment. And he was. His mother nodded. Mac took a sip of his milk and then he said, "But …"

"Mac," she said, trying to stop him.

"But you are going to outlive him," Mac said quietly, forging forward. "And whether he's at the top hospital in the country or the VA in inner city Chicago, he's not going to live. You need to think about yourself, Mom. You can't spend every cent you have for medical care that won't help. You need money when he's gone and you need a house with a roof." He slammed the table with his hand and he said definitively, "And Dad's missing something if he doesn't see that."

* * *

Mac lay on his bed feeling the wind blow through the window beside him. Claire was on the phone talking about a hotel on the beach and the warm sun beating down on her tanned skin and the waves lapping at her feet. He was envious, for sure, but also aware for the first time how deep was the financial gap between them. Mac paid his own bills; Claire, in turn, lived off her parents. That fact was deceiving, to be honest, because Mac's self-sufficiency allowed him a freedom that Claire didn't possess.

He didn't begrudge Claire the lifestyle that her parents financed. His parents would have done the same had they had the same resources. He also knew Claire wasn't completely spoiled. They had instilled in her values of hard work and persistence, and Mac knew her father worked very hard for the Manhattan investment bank that employed him. And perhaps most importantly, they had taught her the values of service and compassion and kindness.

But it was crystal clear to Mac that a spring break trip to the Bahamas or Florida or Jamaica was out of the question. He was buying a roof for his mother, and that was a very odd thing indeed. "So how are things?" Claire suddenly asked. He heard the concern in her voice.

"Okay," he said.

"Did you know you're a horrible liar?" she asked quietly.

"I thought you needed to see my eyes to know if I'm telling the truth," Mac smiled.

"I can hear it in your voice," she replied.

"It's not good, Claire," he said finally.

"What's wrong?" She waited, and Mac didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to describe what was happening to his parents. The roof was just a symptom of a much deeper problem that he wasn't sure he could explain fully. Today, he had felt like a parent taking care of wandering children. His mother was lost without her husband's strong leadership and his father was lost because he no longer did what he used to do. Mac was convinced that if he had been on the roof to see the damage himself, his father would have hopped down and figured out how to provide. They weren't wealthy, but his father had _always _provided.

"I don't know to explain it," he said.

"Try."

So Mac tried. He recounted the story for her, but he didn't think Claire completely understood because he didn't understand himself. When Mac finally informed her that the only way to get the roof on the house was for him to buy it himself, she got quiet. He wasn't sure what she was thinking, but it made him nervous. He was embarrassed by the fact that his parents were barely making ends meet. He struggled to admit that his once strong father was weakened. He felt angry at his father for making his mother feel insecure.

He didn't know how to explain that if his father couldn't provide for his mother, it meant that the world had slipped off its axis. It frightened him and he couldn't stop the changes that were rolling over his family.

"Oh Mac," she whispered. "You are always trying to fix everything." He laughed a little. "It is so … so … sweet."

The word grated on him. That wasn't what was happening. He wasn't buying a roof because it was a nice thing to do, he was doing it because he literally had no other option. Claire didn't understand that; how could she? She was spending Christmas in San Diego in a three bedroom hotel suite. He was waiting for the ceiling to collapse in his mom's bathroom. "Sweet? This isn't sweet, Claire," he replied angrily. "This is … I don't know what this is. This is …"

His voice trailed off and he clenched his jaw. "This is FUBAR," she said.

Mac blinked. At last, he laughed. "What the hell, Claire? Who taught you that?"

"Some Marine I know told me what it meant."

"Okay," Mac laughed. "That's right. It's fucked up."

"Beyond all recognition," she said slowly and sympathetically. "It's not supposed to be that way, is it?" Mac exhaled; She _did_ get it. She understood him completely. It wasn't the money. It wasn't the roof. It wasn't the penthouse in San Diego versus the beaten-down bungalow in Chicago. It was life moving along the wrong path, and he was powerless to stop it. "I wish I was there with you," she said quietly.

"I wish you were too," he agreed.


	6. The Best

**A/n:** Don't own any CSI:NY characters. And thanks for your reviews of the last chapter... Appreciate your support!

* * *

_**The Best**_

Mac crouched down and rearranged the sticks into a teepee shaped structure. Claire stood behind him holding spindly branches of kindling. Mac reached back for a few and placed them under the larger pieces of wood. He rolled a sheet of paper into a long torch and gestured with his hand towards Claire. She reached in her jeans and handed him a red lighter. Mac shook his head, amused, but lit the paper and tucked it under the campfire. He watched, chewing his bottom lip, hoping it would light. As the flames moved from the kindling to the smaller branches and finally to the medium-sized sticks, he nodded. "One match fire," he said triumphantly.

By this time, Claire was leaning against a large round log that was used for seating, her legs extended in front of her. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon in the west, and the sand beneath her bare feet was cooling fast. They had spent a day at the North Carolina beach; it wasn't quite the Bahamas and it hadn't been exactly balmy, but it had been enough of a break to feel as if they were on vacation – even though it was only a day. They hadn't swam, but they had held their shoes in their hands and strolled up and down the beach where the ocean met the sand. They hadn't slept beneath a baking sun, but they had pulled out a blanket and eaten sandwiches laced with sand granules and drank coffee – good coffee prepared by Mac – from a thermos. They had hiked a little and found a secluded spot where Claire had managed to convince Mac that no one would find them (and she was right) although Mac informed her that exhibitionism wasn't his thing. "Maybe it's mine," she teased, her t-shirt already bunched up on the grounds as a makeshift pillow.

Mac slid back to sit beside her and rest his hand on her thigh. She was staring at the twilight sky, watching as it turned from a brilliant blue laced with orange, red and purple to a smoky hue that promised sparkling stars in an hour. "Red at night, sailor's delight," she said, nodding towards the ebbing sunset.

"Red in the morning, sailors take warning," Mac finished. She tilted her head to rest against his shoulder and she sighed. "Nice day, wasn't it?" Mac said.

"The best," she replied. "We should sleep here. In front of the fire."

"I don't think it's allowed," he said. "The beach, technically, closes at dusk."

"So? Then it's closed already," she challenged. "It's not like there's anyone out here, ready to arrest us." He laughed a bit but nodded. She was right. The wind was picking up and her long hair flew in his face. He smoothed it with his hand and tucked it behind her ear. "I think I'm going to start straightening it," she blurted.

"Why?"

"Why not?" she challenged.

"Because it seems like work," he replied, his eyes sparkling.

"True," she allowed. "I have to do something, though. It's … I just don't like it." Mac nodded, no longer smoothing it, but instead running his fingers through it. "You like it, though," she teased.

"I do," he nodded.

After a beat, Claire suddenly asked, "Are you ever going to get deployed again?"

He rubbed at his eyes a moment and finally nodded. "Probably." He waited a moment and then added, "Almost certainly, yes." He asked, "Why?"

"No reason," she replied softly. Together, they watched a pelican that coasted towards the water, smoothly ducking her head beneath the ocean and pulling out a fish. Mac smiled as they watched it land on a buoy and swallow it with one gulp. "Doesn't even chew," Claire commented.

Mac nodded. "Birds don't have teeth," Mac informed. "They use their gizzards to grind up their food so they are able to digest it."

"That's a word you don't hear much. _Gizzard_," she deadpanned. "Did you know that you know too much?" Mac laughed at her smiling eyes. "Keep it to yourself," she teased, elbowing him gently, "and let me admire the pelican without thinking about its gizzard."

After a beat, Mac asked, "Why are you asking if I'll be deployed?"

She laughed, "You don't miss anything, do you, Captain Mac?"

"_You_ asked," he replied.

She nodded. Finally, she shrugged, "I was thinking about what it would be like to be here without you." He furrowed his brow and nodded subtly. "I like being with you," she said. "But I don't know if I could live down here without you."

"Down here like down here on base," Mac clarified.

"Yeah," she exhaled.

Mac nodded as he considered her words. After a brief moment of silence, Claire turned so she was leaning into Mac. He pulled her tighter to him, his arm gently tracing a circle on her bare shoulder. "There's nothing for you down here," he finally said. "I don't think you'd like living single just off base and …" Claire tilted her head upwards to look at Mac. He swallowed and continued softly, "And I don't see you wanting to finish your degree at one of the schools near base," he said. "And the economy runs on the military. You work for the government or you work in the service industry. And without a degree …"

"I'd be working at Wal-Mart," she finished. "I've done this before, remember?" Mac clenched his jaw and nodded. He didn't like being reminded that Claire had felt close enough to someone else that she almost married him. He didn't think he was a jealous soul, but thinking about a younger Claire being taken for a ride bothered him. He stood up and poked at the fire. One log dropped sending sparks flying into the air, but reinvigorating it so it caught the rest of the logs. He glanced back at Claire; she had closed her eyes and she looked relaxed. She opened her eyes and said quietly, "I have a secret." Mac stood straight and waited, surprised by her words. "I did something," she said, turning her face up towards him. "And I didn't tell you."

"Okay," he said hesitantly. He maneuvered himself back to her side and sat down. He extended his legs and waited for her to speak.

"I applied to Duke," she announced. Mac blinked a few times and tilted his head. "As a transfer student," she clarified. Mac didn't say anything; he just listened. "What do you think of that?" she asked nervously.

"Duke University? As in Durham?" he asked numbly. She arched her eyebrows in irritation. _Where else? _ "Now that's a surprise," he said softly.

Claire thought she detected a smile in his voice though and it gave her confidence. "Actually," she clarified. "They said if I take summer school, everything can transfer and I can enroll in the fall. Technically, I'll be a course or two behind, but I'll have junior standing, and if I take summer school every year, I should even be able to graduate with my class."

"You applied or you're accepted?" Mac asked.

"I'm accepted," she admitted quietly. "I did pretty good on the SATs," she said bashfully. "So it wasn't that hard." Mac nodded. He noticed that Claire had turned away from him to draw pictures in the sand. "Here's the thing," she said. She stopped speaking, and he noticed she was writing her name over and over in the sand. C. L. A. I. R. E.

"What's the thing?" he prompted.

She exhaled and said, "I know it's not a reason to do it, but … you know my parents would go crazy if I moved here." Mac nodded subtly. "I mean if I moved to the base. They would lose their mind because they don't know you and they don't see what I see and …" Her voice trailed off and Mac waited. "And I'm twenty." He pulled at his bottom lip and she said, "But I think my dad can get behind this if I come down here for Duke. I mean, it's…" Her voice trailed off.

"It's hard to quibble with Duke," Mac finished. She nodded. He bit his lip, thinking. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly.

"Are you mad?" she replied quietly.

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "I'm just surprised and wonder why you didn't say anything."

"I don't know," she admitted. "I guess … I wanted to make sure it was right for me." Mac shifted in the sand so he could see her face. She turned away from him and started to write his name. M. A. C. M. A. C.

"You're hesitating, though," he said.

She nodded. She suddenly said, "Don't take this the wrong way, okay?" Mac waited. "But I wish it was you who had to move for me." Mac tilted his head, confused. "Because then I would know."

"Know what?" he pushed quietly, although he thought he understood.

"I would know how you feel about me." Mac was about to reply defensively. _How could you question it? How could you not know how I feel? I tell you all the time that I'm glad you're here. We spend all your breaks together. We're talking about the future right now, aren't we? _He caught her eyes though and realized something: She was talking about _moving _for him and all he had done was stay put.

She stood up and walked barefoot towards the water. Mac watched as she stared at the ocean, her silhouette dark and her features blurred in the near-darkness. Her hair flew in the wind and her hands were stuffed in her pockets. After a moment, he followed. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her shiver as she placed her cold hands on his. He rest his chin on her shoulder. At long last, he spoke, "Claire, I love you."

She laughed a little but blushed. "That's not what I meant," she insisted. "You didn't have to say that."

"Yes, I did," he replied, kissing her neck. "And I haven't told you before, and I won't tell you enough, I know. Because I am … not good at telling people how I feel."

She smiled, turning in his arms. "Well, it's about time you got good."

* * *

They lay on a wool blanket that Mac had pulled from the trunk of the car. Claire was wrapped in a too-big USMC sweatshirt that Mac had discovered in the backseat. His overcoat covered her legs. She rest her head on his shoulder and looked up at the dark night. The campfire was starting to burn out, and Mac was debating if he should keep it going. It was late, he knew and they had a drive in front of them, but he didn't particularly care.

They had talked about Duke and what she would study. Her eyes lit up in excitement about attending the university, and Mac was pleased to see her enthusiasm. In the most general terms, they talked about whether Claire would ever make a good military wife. Hedgingly, they had talked about other things that Mac could do based on the increasingly optimistic feeling that this "thing" between them might work out. They had talked about her mom's cooking, memories of weekends at the lake, vacations in Maine, her dad's loyal attendance at her lacrosse games. Mac had played soccer, he bragged. His father had not been impressed, calling it a "European sport," Mac chuckled, but he still came to the games. Mac mentioned that his mother was the youngest of seven children and had married late. That made Mac the youngest – by far – of the cousins. He remembered loud and raucous holidays and how much he liked going home when they were over. He recalled how his mother was the one to wait up for him in high school and how he had sat at the kitchen table with her while he recounted certain, sanitized details of his exploits. He told her that the only day his dad had said he was proud of him was when he graduated from University of Chicago. He didn't say much, though, when he joined the Marines. He just nodded into nothingness. The relationship troubled Mac. He wanted something different, but he expected too much to try and redefine it now, he knew. His father was who he was. And that was that.

As they lay there, the night had turned to midnight black. The stars twinkled and they listened to the waves crash along the shore. Increasingly long periods of quiet dominated their time and they dozed sometimes. Suddenly, Claire asked quietly, "Do you think there's life out there?"

"In space?" he asked for clarification. He felt her nod. "There's a lot of variables that have to come together to sustain life," he said scientifically. "So it's unlikely, I think."

"But doesn't the galaxy go on for infinity?" she asked.

"The universe," he gently corrected. "It's expanding, so yes. In theory."

"Don't you think those variables could come together somewhere else if it goes on forever?"

Mac hesitated. After a beat, he nodded. "Probably. I guess."

"Where do you think heaven is?" she asked quietly.

He exhaled. "I don't know. I don't know if it even exists."

She turned her head and looked up at him. "Do you believe it does?"

Mac closed an eye and wrinkled his nose. He looked at her. "Honestly?" She nodded. "Probably not."

Her eyes widened. "You believe in God, though. Right?"

He hesitated. "Sometimes, I guess." She nodded. He shrugged. "I don't know. I want to." She didn't respond. "I want to believe something good will happen to my dad when he dies." He paused for a moment and Claire waited. "I don't know if he's had a good life," Mac said softly. "I mean, he loves my mom. I'm sure of that, but …" Claire waited and Mac said, "But he always works so hard. He worked hard in the military. He still works hard in the factory. And now, he works hard to breathe. Imagine that," Mac said. "Having to work to breathe. And he still gets up and goes to work and brings home a crappy paycheck. He's never taken a vacation, but damn it, he bought a two bedroom house for his wife and kid and now my mom wants to take out a second mortgage on it so he can spend another two years working to breathe." Mac clenched his jaw and said quietly, "I guess that's the American dream."

Claire blinked and squeezed his hand. She whispered, "I think that's just life." He held her tight and she said, "You should try harder to believe."

Mac laughed a little. "I do," he finally said. "I believe in God." He kissed her temple and felt her breathing even out. At last, he said, "I don't know about heaven though." She turned on her side and looked at him. The sound of the waves lapped in the background. She gently stroked his cheek and he smiled softly. "Because I don't think it gets better than this." Mac leaned up and kissed her.

* * *

"Hey! Wake up," Mac heard the voice from above at the same time he felt a gentle nudge to his side. He opened an eye and immediately squinted. Something bright was flashing in his eyes. He looked away and heard again, "You kids. Get up! You can't sleep here." Claire rolled away from Mac, groaning at the annoyance of being woken up.

"What time is it?" Mac asked. He finally got his bearings to realize he was staring at a weathered police officer whose flashlight was shining precariously close to Mac's eyes. Mac held his hand up to block the light, and he pushed himself to his knees.

"The beach is closed," the officer said, shining his light at Mac and Claire. "You can't be sleeping here like bums."

Mac nodded. "Sir, we'll pack up then," Mac said. "I apologize, sir," he said. Claire turned over and rubbed her face, still blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

"You got ID on you?" the officer asked.

"Yes, sir," Mac said cooperatively, reaching into his back pocket. "Claire, where's your purse?" he asked. "Sir, we were just walking the beach and we fell asleep talking."

The officer nodded seriously as Mac handed him a military identification card and an Illinois driver's license. Claire fumbled for hers and for a brief second, Mac worried she would hand him a fake one. She winked at Mac but handed over her official New York driver's license. The officer inspected them with his flashlight and handed Claire's back to her. He held on to Mac's and glanced at his watch. He said, "It's almost five in the morning. You on leave?"

Mac nodded. "Three days, sir."

He hesitated and looked around at the coffee mugs and remnants of last night's dinner. "You're not drinking, are you? No alcohol on the beach." He pointed at Claire. "Or for her."

Mac shook his head and reached for the thermos. "No, sir. We had coffee. Long gone." Mac handed the thermos over to the officer who sniffed at it in disdain.

The officer released a half-smile now, handing the thermos to Claire who accepted it with a nod. "Alright, Captain… Taylor," he said quietly, holding the card out so he could read the name. "The sun'll be up in a bit. The joggers won't like running into a sleeping couple. They'll think you're homeless." He handed the identification cards back and said, "Get yourself together and make sure that fire's out and … go get breakfast or something." Mac nodded with a smile. The officer shook his head as he started to walk away. "I hope you had a good night, sleeping in the sand."

"We did, sir," Mac smiled.

"The sand sticks in your hair," he commented. Mac chuckled to himself. "Watch out for chiggers and bugs and scorpions and …" he called.

Claire smiled and called, "It was really the best night ever, officer."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he replied, shaking his hand at them. "You say that now," he said, moving towards his car. He opened the door to the police cruiser and stopped. One hand rest on the top and he looked back at Mac and Claire. "You kids enjoy your time together. It goes by way too fast."


	7. Detente

A/n: I don't own the CSINY characters.

* * *

**Détente**

Claire was nervous as she began to unpack the box of books. Her father, wearing smartly-creased khaki pants and a pale green polo shirt, stood in the corner, assessing the small dormitory room for the best placement of the furniture. Claire suggested that the desk would be best suited under the window but her father thought it was an inefficientuse of space. Her new roommate, Elise, a transfer student from Atlanta, fawned over every suggestion he made. It annoyed Claire, even more so because Elise's accent sounded harsh to her northern ears. She wondered how long it would take to get used to it, or God forbid, adapt the same tones in her voice.

Claire stacked her books into a neat pile on the top shelf of the worn wooden bookcase: Webster's dictionary, an English-French dictionary of dubious quality, an accounting textbook from her first class at Brooklyn College. Elise could have the second shelf and the girls would share the third. Claire had already arranged packets of instant oatmeal, a case of Diet Coke and set of Corningware dishes on that shelf.

Glancing at her new roommate, Claire frowned. Elise's three inch heels echoed off the tiled floor as she crossed the room. Her blonde hair was curled and teased into a well-maintained coif, her manicured nails matched her blouse perfectly. Claire's hair, on the other hand, was stuffed beneath a Yankees hat, the ponytail emerging through the hole in the back. She sported a Band Aid on her thumb, the result of a careless attempt at opening a box with her fingers. Her nails, once painted a pale pink, were now chipped, which didn't surprise Claire because she never could wait a full twenty minutes for them to dry.

Her entire family had made the trek to Durham, North Carolina, purportedly to move her into college, but the _real _reason, Claire suspected, was that they would meet Mac. And, if she was honest with herself, she guessed _that _was the source of the butterflies in her stomach and the irritation with which she treated everyone who crossed her path.

With Duke University in her future, her father and mother had suddenly eased up on the concerns about her relationship with Mac. They weren't fully onboard, Claire knew that, but she did pay attention to whispered conversations that indicated an easing of tensions. _Let's just remember he wants her to go to school, _Claire heard. _He _does _seem to treat her well. She seems happy when she comes home. And she could do worse than Duke._

Claire looked around the activity in the room with an increasing sense of irritation. With a flutter of her eyelashes, Elise was begging Claire's brother to _please _bring one of her boxes over to the closet. Claire shook her head. She had carried all of her boxes by herself. Claire's father was struggling to push the beds into an efficient L-shaped pattern where each girl had a window above her bed. "I'd rather have a window by my desk," Claire announced for the second time.

"I think it's perfect," Elise replied. _Of course she did._ "Thank you, Mr. Conrad."

And her mother was smoothing the crisp white sheets on the bed and encouraging Claire to demonstrate her housekeeping skills by folding efficient hospital corners.

Claire glared at her mother. Her family – with their new best friend, Elise – was micromanaging the set-up of her dorm and it bothered her. So, in the only act of open rebellion that she could think of, Claire stuffed the sheet under the mattress and whipped off her brand-new Duke sweatshirt to reveal a plain white tank that displayed her tattoo in all its grandeur. Her father sighed and her mother clenched her jaw, although Claire never did understand if it was the ink that bothered them or the reminder of the biggest scandal in Conrad history. Elise's eyes widened. Claire would bet dollars to doughnuts that Elise didn't have a tattoo.

Perhaps getting to the heart of Claire's annoyance and nerves, her father asked quietly, "When do you expect Mac?"

"Soon," she said to her father and peeked her head out the door. He was always punctual, maybe even a few minutes early, but Claire knew he had worked the morning before driving nearly three hours to her new dorm. _Please be there_, she said to herself. He wasn't, of course, so Claire shut the door behind her in an effort to trap all the tension inside the room. She would wait for him downstairs.

* * *

Claire popped the tab on her Diet Coke and slouched into the corner of the tweedy plaid sofa in the lobby of the building. She kicked her flip-flops onto the floor and pulled her knees up to her chest and watched person after person walk through the front door. She wondered which of them would become fast friends, which of them would be study partners, which of them would succeed in school, which would spend their weekends drinking at frat houses. It was chaotic in the lobby – fathers carried boxes, mothers held pillows, students ordered their parents to go directions they had never been, younger siblings walked aimlessly, their heads spinning at the myriad of noises and scents.

Claire looked around, her heart pounding with a mix of disbelief that she was _actually _at Duke University and fear of the unknown before her. She hoped she had made the right decision, although she was hard-pressed to think of a universe in which staying at home with her parents would be better. Still, it was a new school in a new state, and change was hard, no matter what.

She saw Mac enter the building and stop at the front desk. He rest his palms on the counter and leaned ever so slightly forward to get the attention of the young man whose nose was firmly planted in a book. Mac was evidently asking for directions, and she saw the student's eyes lift in disinterest. After a moment, he nodded, placed a finger in his book to mark his spot and closed it. He stood up and pointed down the hallway, at the end of which was a stairway that led to Claire's room.

She wondered if Mac would see her in the lobby and she stayed quiet, a little game for her to see how observant he was. He turned towards the hallway to which he had been directed and stopped when he saw her eyes on him. He rest his hands on his hips and nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Claire announced, "I'm taking a break."

"I see that," he replied, approaching her.

Claire pushed herself up from the corner and gestured with her head towards the couch. "Sit with me," she ordered. "I just can't go back there yet." Mac sat and rest an arm on her shoulder and tugged her close to him.

"How's the Blue Devil?" he teased quietly.

"I'm feeling … devilish," she said, a twinkle in her eye. Mac chuckled a little and squeezed her neck gently. "I am so glad you're here." She took a long drink of her Diet Coke and handed him the can. He took a single sip and then gave it back to her. She nodded towards the hallway and said, "My roommate packed her debutante dress. And her southern belle accent is already on my last nerve. Plus she's wearing high heels for move-in day and making my brother do all her work." Mac arched an eyebrow, amused by her description.

"Are you giving her a chance at least?" Mac smirked.

"I'm giving her a taste of Brooklyn, that's for sure," she said. Mac chuckled a little, and Claire added quietly, "I'm not sure she likes me much."

"Give it time," Mac said gently. "She might turn out okay." Claire shrugged a single shoulder, unconvinced. He clasped his hands together and rest them on his knees as they observed Claire's new surroundings. Two young men, clad in J. Crew, mock-punched each other as they sparred in the lobby. Predictably, one of them bumped into a lady carrying a sack of groceries, sending it sailing across the floor. Apologies followed, and Mac stood up to fetch the box of Cheez-Its that had landed in the corner.

When he sat back down, Mac quipped, "There's a little more activity in this building than in your house, I'm guessing." Claire didn't respond, instead leaning back in the sofa and squeezing the bridge of her nose. Mac finally commented, "You're upset. What's wrong?"

She shifted in the sofa so she faced him more and began to rant. "My dad is trying to help, but he doesn't know what to do, so he just moves the furniture around, and I hate everything he suggests." Mac laughed lightly through his nose, but Claire continued, her voice growing louder as she spoke. "My mom is all about folding towels a certain way and cleaning the corners of the room with Pine-Sol. My older brother only wants to see the basketball team, and my younger brother? He just thinks he's meeting G.I. Joe today so … neither one is helping at all." Mac chewed his bottom lip and looked away, trying to mask the smile that was forming on his lips. "And now, _you _are on my shit list too."

"Me?" Mac asked rhetorically, genuinely offended now. "Why me?"

"Because you think this is funny."

"I think _you're _funny," Mac leveled. "You're letting everyone get under your skin when the truth is everyone's here to help you," he said honestly. "Besides, they'll be out of your hair before nine tonight and you'll have your own room with your own stuff and you'll be all by yourself with no one to complain about."

"Don't forget Scarlett O'Hara," she said.

"Well, Scarlett's part of the package, I guess," he said, his eyes serious now. "If you didn't want a roommate, you should have gotten an apartment."

"You're not being very sympathetic," Claire pouted.

Mac shook his head. "No," he agreed. "I'm not."

She blinked, as much surprised as offended. "You're _supposed _to be sympathetic," she directed after a moment.

"Says who? You?" Her jaw dropped a little at Mac's admonishment. "Is that how the world according to Claire goes?" Her eyes widened at his uncharacteristic scolding of her. Mac smiled gently, trying to ease the tension. "Come on Claire," he said quietly, tapping her thigh. "I just drove 200 miles to carry your boxes up three flights of stairs. If you're pissed about something, I'd rather hear about _that _than have you heap shit on me."

She exhaled audibly. She slowly nodded. "For the record? I've been a royal bitch to everyone who came all the way down here to help. I guess you're my target too."

Mac didn't smile. "I'll take cover then," he commented. "But maybe back on base if this is how the rest of the day goes."

She met Mac's gaze and realized he was serious. He was calling her out for an attitude adjustment, and she deserved it. She ran a hand over her face and then leaned her head onto his shoulder. "I'm sorry." At the regret, her hardened exterior cracked, and she realized she was nearing tears. She didn't want Mac mad at her; he was her greatest ally. She waited with baited breath for him to accept her apology.

"It's okay," he said at last. After a few moments of silence, he nudged her gently and asked softly, "What's _really _going on?"

"The honest-to-God truth?" He nodded. "I'm sick to my stomach thinking about my parents meeting you."

Mac bit his bottom lip. "So let me get this straight," Mac said. "You're nasty to everyone who crosses your path, because you don't think I can do it." Claire looked at him quickly. His eyes were sparkling, all the tension from the last five minutes gone. She smiled hesitantly. He pulled her head to his lips, and he pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead. "Listen to me," he ordered quietly. "I can jump out of airplanes at 40,000 feet and elude radar. I can hike fourteen miles with 140 pounds of gear." She smiled a little more. "Most importantly, I can talk _you _off the edge of insanity. I think I can handle a conversation with your parents." She laughed now and Mac tapped her leg with his hand. "Let's get it over with."

She took a deep breath and nodded, trying to relax. The couple sat in silence for a bit, Mac seeming to understand that she would tell him when she was ready for him to meet her family. She took a long sip from her Diet Coke can and then handed it to Mac. He finished it and stood up. "Will you buy me a beer tonight?" Claire asked petulantly as he tossed the can into the nearest recycling bin. "I can't take this kind of stress."

"Only if you're nice to me," he winked.

* * *

Claire would have grabbed Mac's hand, but it was already on the open door, tapping lightly. The room smelled like lemon furniture polish, Claire noted, the result of her mother's fanatic cleaning expedition. Her father was crouched on the floor unpacking a box of Claire's personal items and deciding how to arrange them on the single remaining shelf. She clenched her jaw in annoyance at what she was perceived an invasion of her personal space. Mac, however, took a step into the room. His mere presence stopped her parents' activity.

Her father stood up and took in the Marine clad in jeans and a gray t-shirt and nodded. Claire was about to make an introduction when Mac held his right hand out and confidently introduced himself, "Sir, I'm Mac Taylor." Her father took a step towards Mac and shook his hand firmly, his eyes never leaving Mac's. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Conrad."

"Likewise," her father said.

Claire's mother finished folding an off-white rag into thirds and wiped her hands on her trendy jeans so she could shake Mac's. "Mrs. Conrad," he said, gripping her hand firmly. "It's nice to meet you too, ma'am." Before she met Mac, Claire would have burst out laughing at anyone calling her parents, "sir" and "ma'am". Now, she didn't even smirk. She somehow knew he would be using the formal nomenclature with her parents and to be honest, she saw it impressed them.

He met her brothers, who were far more interested than they had let on, and he greeted her roommate. Claire was pleased to see Mac step back when Elise gripped his hands. With a sweet flutter of her eyelashes, she smothered him with southern hospitality by issuing a standing invitation for him to visit _absolutely _anytime he wanted to. When Elise turned around, Claire mouthed to Mac, "See?" He nodded, a smile on the corners of his lips.

At her father's request, Mac offered a brief description of his educational background and time in the Marines. Her youngest brother asked for a war story and Mac gave a sanitized version of an operation in Latin America, which Claire had never heard of before. Her mother wanted to know how Mac's mother felt about him being "in the service." And just when Claire feared the conversation would stall, Mac asked her father to tell him about his work. Mac was confident and self-assured, and Claire wondered why she had ever worried in the first place.

He was an enthusiastic participant in the moving-in rituals. He moved furniture and deftly convinced her father to place the desk in front of the window. He climbed on a chair to dust the top shelf of Claire's closet before setting winter clothes up there. Later, as the dinner hour approached, Mac – the only one who had spent significant time in Raleigh-Durham – suggested several restaurants before they settled on a pizza joint just off-campus.

He wasn't overly affectionate with her in the presence of her parents, but Claire was pleased to find his hand on her lower back as they entered the restaurant. He even had the audacity to tease her father when he was about to order a large pizza with sausage. He reminded him that Claire didn't really like sausage. _Since when?_ her father asked. _Since forever, Mr. Conrad. _Her father glanced at Claire, a smug expression on her face. _I guess that's right, _he allowed. The family had pepperoni instead of sausage.

With each smile and laugh from her family, Claire felt tension leave her body. This was going better than she had expected. As the evening began to close down, Claire slid closer to Mac in the booth, tilted sideways so she fit neatly into his body, and he rest his arm around her shoulder. Her parents, wary at first of the Marine who had swept their daughter off her feet, smiled. Mac drew small circles on her upper arm with his thumb. Claire looked up at him and said, "I'm ready to head back."

* * *

Mac propped the pillow behind his head and pulled out his novel as he waited for Claire to finish her shower. They had made a brief stop at her dorm for her to pack a small bag but the couple had elected to spend the night just off campus at a nearby hotel. Mac wouldn't sleep on the floor of a dorm room and he certainly didn't relish sharing a space with Elise. He expected they might pass many a night at this modest, yet comfortable, hotel.

Claire's family was at a more luxurious version, three miles away, and would be on the road early the next morning. He had stood in the periphery and watched Claire say goodbye to her family. She wiped away a few tears; she would miss them and it was easy for Mac to see why. Mac had liked Claire's family more than he expected. Her father was sharp and intelligent with a mathematician's mind, and Mac had enjoyed the detailed description of his career as an investment banker. Still, he had a nurturing side, and it was quite clear by the lengthy embrace he offered Claire that he would miss his only daughter tremendously.

They liked Mac, he knew that too, but they still left with a sense of trepidation. Independent of Mac, Duke was a good decision. Everyone knew that. But independent of Mac, Claire wouldn't be here either. Everyone knew that too. And the enormity of what Claire was doing startled Mac when he allowed himself to think it through. The simple fact was that he loved her. But life was not simple, and it was far too early to bank on the long-term success of a relationship that had been long-distance from the start. It scared him, quite honestly, when he realized Claire was changing her entire life's trajectory to give them a chance.

But it wasn't _his_ feelings that gave him pause. Mac knew exactly how he felt. Rather, it was the nagging paternalistic voice in his head that told him Claire was too young to know how she felt. She was twenty. And what twenty-year old was ready to make decisions that affected the rest of her life? Yet when it came to their relationship, she was the only one making them.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked suddenly.

Mac blinked in surprise at her voice. She had snuck up on him. He shut his book and smiled. She stood beside the bed, wrapped in a white hotel towel. He slid towards the middle of the bed and nodded for her to join him. "That was a long shower," he commented, ignoring the question. She scooted onto the bed next to him, the towel gaping open. He turned to his side as she pressed her lips against his. He ran his hands through her wet hair, inhaling the scent of soap and shampoo as he kissed her deeply.

She smiled. "I love you." He nodded, leaning in to kiss her again. She pulled back and repeated, "I mean, Mac, I _love _you." He chuckled now and kissed her neck. Her hands were on his face and she pushed him away and said, "It's important to me that you know that."

He blinked a few times and nodded. "I know that," he said.

"Do you?" she asked, her voice intense. Her eyes clouded over and Mac tilted his head. "Do you know how much I love you?"

He nodded, but his eyes were confused. "What's going on?" he asked.

"You're the only person who understands me." He laughed a little, rolling to his back. "Mac, don't laugh," she ordered quietly. The smile left his face as he understood the importance of what Claire had to say. "You let me be exactly who I am. You don't take my shit. But you don't hold it against me either. How do you do that?" Mac didn't reply, thinking her question was rhetorical. She pushed herself up and hovered over him, looking in his eyes. "Really? How do you always know what to do? You make everything better."

He shrugged and finally said, "It's not hard to do when you love someone." She bit her lip, suddenly nervous. Mac reached up with his hand and cupped her cheek. "What are you thinking about?" he asked softly.

"You won't laugh?" He shook his head, urging her to continue. She traced the lines on his face with an index finger, rubbing her thumb gently across his cheek. She touched his ears tenderly and then leaned up and kissed his lips. "I think you're the love of my life," she said softly.

Mac looked at the confidence on her face, and he pushed away lingering doubts. Claire was a grown woman, and if she could trust her feelings, he could too. She looked in his eyes and Mac felt he was baring his soul. And he felt fearless. It was a connection deeper than any he had ever felt before, and he knew: he was looking at his future wife. His voice breaking beneath the weight of emotion, he said, "And I _know _you are."


	8. Location, Location, Location

**A/N: Don't own the CSI:NY characters. Perhaps this chapter is a bit rough (writing-wise, I mean), but I'm going in circles, so I'm going to call it and post it. Thank you all for your lovely reviews. I enjoy receiving them.**

* * *

**Location, Location, Location**

Claire leaned over and emptied the rest of her plastic water bottle into the philodendron plant on the edge of Elise's desk. She pushed her index finger into the soil and decided it was good enough. It wasn't dry anymore, but it wasn't soaked either. She fluffed two down pillows on the back of the bed, preparing a nest for her studying. Finally, she set two textbooks on Venture Capital on the nightstand and a three inch black binder with handouts for the course. She had exams the next week and she planned to ace them in preparation for her applications for grad school.

Her relationship with Elise was tenuous at best. They were conveniently cool to each other, which, quite frankly, allowed them to live together. They didn't share meals, classes or friends so it meant they could share a room at night. Mac still called her Scarlett behind her back, and Claire was pleased to note that he wasn't a fan either. She was overbearing and dramatic, and Claire now understood why she had gone through three roommates in two years at Southern Methodist University. Still, they didn't fight, and since she had asked nicely, Claire _did _agree to care for her treasured houseplant while Elise was on break. She planned to bring it to Mac's for a few days, and he promised his neighbor would water it while they were gone.

In the last three months since Claire's transfer to Duke, she and Mac had settled into a comfortable routine. An early riser, Mac would arrive by nine most Saturdays. They enjoyed the life the "city" had to offer – restaurants, movies, parks – and they had become regulars at the very-clean-but-less-than-luxurious hotel on the edge of campus. For fun, Claire had nicknamed it the "Brothel," because she assumed the staff, who had come to expect Mac and Claire each weekend, had determined that the Duke co-ed and her Marine boyfriend were trying to find a private place to have sex. Which was, of course, partially true.

The transition to Duke had not been easy for Claire. The outgoing Claire had trouble making friends, mostly because she saw Mac every weekend instead of spending time rushing for a sorority, going to concerts with new friends, or attending basketball games at the athletic powerhouse that had made her university famous. Without close friends on the weekend, Claire wasn't included in the spontaneous trips to a coffee shop or the quick pizza in a dorm room during the weekdays.

Still, she considered it a small price to pay when she considered how much their relationship had benefitted from her move south. Mac grounded the more spontaneous Claire, but he held a sense of humor that few people saw. He called nearly every evening, and when he didn't, Claire was embarrassed to realize how much she had come to depend on those calls. Surprising her, Mac still wrote her letters. His prose was articulate and romantic; he could say on paper what she longed to hear on the phone.

_Sometimes I catch myself wondering what you're doing, where you are, if you're thinking of me too…  
__This is hard, Claire. I miss you too much. Don't you think it's time to be in the same place? Love you … see you Saturday. ~ Mac_

But if Claire had thought their relationship was too good to be true, the holidays had become a bone of contention. In fact, just as Mac was dropping her off at her dorm last Sunday, they had exchanged some tense words over their plans for Christmas. She had two full weeks off and she wanted to spend them with Mac. He scrimped by with five days. Still, she expected to spend the first half of her break at his place. She could make herself comfortable while he worked. He agreed. That wasn't the problem.

The issue was that he wanted – no, _needed_, he insisted– to visit his parents. But she had just spent three months in a new state away from her family and with a limited social life and she was _desperately _homesick. She could practically taste her mom's Christmas turkey, envisioned the family trip to see the Rockefeller Christmas tree, looked forward to waking up on Christmas morning with cinnamon rolls in the oven. She wanted Mac to experience it too.

She couldn't imagine spending Christmas in Chicago, and she had said so. So, always logical, Mac suggested she go to New York and he to Chicago and that would be fine. They had plenty of future Christmases to spend together. He understood why she wanted to go home, so she should. And to top it off, he hoped she had a splendid time. But to Claire's ears, it sounded just a little too easy, and it annoyed her.

And so she had sat in the passenger seat of his car and asked with more than a hint of sarcasm, "Why can't you at least _pretend _that you want to spend the holiday with me?"

He had raised his eyebrows, held his hands out and retorted, "I asked you to come to Chicago with me. To me, that's saying I want to spend it with you. You're the one who's insisting on going back to New York. So don't make this something it's not."

"I wish we could go both places," she pouted. "I feel like you're picking your parents over me."

"Unlike you, Claire, I don't have two weeks. I actually have a real job," he snapped. She narrowed her eyes at the unnecessary dig. "And I'm not picking anyone over you. I'm making a choice to see my dying father on what is probably his last Christmas. I'm not sure why you have a problem with that."

Well, that shut Claire right up, because it was, of course, true. She was immediately remorseful, embarrassed that she had thrown a mini-tantrum over his trip to Chicago. And it was true, he _had_ invited her. So before she got out of the car, Claire was backpedaling, informing Mac she would love to go to Chicago and meet his family. She could see her parents another time. Sometime later. Maybe even for New Year's. The only thing she wanted, she told him, was to spend the holiday with him. He had nodded, but somehow seemed displeased.

So, now, three days later, Claire couldn't help but hold a smidgen of doubt about his feelings. Maybe he didn't want her to come home with him. Maybe he didn't want to introduce her to his family. Maybe he was relieved in the first instance that she wanted to spend Christmas in New York. Maybe she should change her mind, yet again, but she didn't want to ping-pong all over the place like a teenager.

And, of course, she needed to focus on finals so she had told Mac she couldn't see him during the weekend. The timing couldn't be worse. It felt like she was punishing him for the awkward conversation, and that only led to voices in her head telling her that Mac was having second thoughts. I mean, that must be why he hadn't called yet. He was thinking about what to say to get her to change her mind. Claire struggled to focus when the telephone rang. Relieved, she picked it up after one ring.

"Hey babe," his voice sounded. "You studying?"

"Uh huh ... And taking care of Elise's plant."

"Is it still alive?"

"Do you not have confidence in me?" she pressed.

"Full confidence," he said quickly. "But you're lucky it's a fairly hardy plant."

"Hardy?" she asked. "How do you know that? Are you a freaking encyclopedia?" she teased.

"I try to know a little bit about everything. It impresses people."

"Well, tell me about Venture Capital then," she ordered.

He exhaled. "Now that's a tough one."

Claire smiled, tucked her knees under her chin and nodded. "Well, then, I'm not impressed."

"How 'bout if I spew romantic ramblings of a lonely man?"

"You're getting there," Claire smiled. Mac chuckled softly from across the wire. All was well in the world, Claire knew it. She wondered why she had ever worried. She pushed aside any lingering doubts about the holidays and told herself it didn't matter. Wherever Mac was, she belonged.

* * *

Mac reached for a yellow legal pad and sat down to write a letter to Claire. He had so many things he wanted to say to her, but somehow he never found the words when they talked. It had been smooth sailing for the couple, although he knew Duke hadn't been easy for her. She was lonely, Mac felt it, and while seeing each other every weekend had been good for their relationship, he was aware that Claire had, once again, made a sacrifice for him. He wanted her to know he appreciated it but it sounded trite to say, "Thanks for moving for me."

And Christmas. What to say about that. He wanted to spend it with her, so why had he made it so difficult? His father was retiring and Mac didn't know if it was simply age or due to health reasons. It was sudden news, at least for the child that lived a thousand miles away and didn't talk to his father on the telephone. His mother sounded anxious about the future; it would be a hard adjustment for him, she told Mac. He has always worked. Mac needed to be home to see what was going on, what changes were happening to his father. How his mother was doing.

He tried to examine his feelings about bringing Claire. He wanted her in Chicago. Definitely. He didn't want to be separate from her for the holiday. If he had his wish, she would spend every minute of every day off from school with him. They'd play house on base while he worked and then they'd take vacation in Chicago. But it wasn't a vacation, it was a reconnaissance mission, frankly. Something was happening and he needed to understand it.

But maybe that itself wasn't true. His mother's words rang in his ears: _You come here twice a year, Mac. We love when you're here and sure, when you're coming, I ask you to help with things. But we take care of everything when you're not here. You know we're fine._ Yeah, he knew it. She didn't call with a list of topics that bothered her, so when she sounded stressed and worried, it got his attention. Like now. She was upset about his dad's retirement; she wanted help maneuvering uncharted waters. And it made Mac feel guilty that he, an only child, wasn't helping her.

Still, he recognized that something else was happening to him. Claire was now his priority, he was startled to realize. If he had to choose between Christmas with Claire and Christmas with his parents, he'd pick Claire. Hands down. And when had that happened? It both scared him and made him happy. He didn't know why he had initially pushed her away … maybe it was because he felt _obligated _to Chicago and he knew she didn't want to be there. He didn't want her forced there either. So, he was doing it for her, but it came out wrong, and it was insensitive and then she pushed and he snapped and … before he knew it, he had guilt-tripped her into a visit to Chicago that she didn't want.

She deserved a trip home. She had sacrificed everything for him. He knew it wasn't all bad for her – Duke was a good school. But if he wasn't 200 miles away, she wouldn't be there. He knew that too. She didn't like the south. She didn't like small towns. And to her, anything smaller than New York was a small town. She liked hustle and bustle and a strong family life and blunt honesty and constant activity. But Raleigh-Durham was quite and slow, and she was lonely, and southern hospitality was far too gentle and polite for her. She didn't fit in here, it was obvious to Mac, but she did it for him.

He had just hung up the phone with her. No talk of the holidays; they had stuck to safer topics like finals and Elise's dumb plant and missing each other … He chewed on his bottom lip and tapped his fingers on the legal pad. Then he pulled out a ballpoint pen and began to write.

* * *

It was Monday, December 18, 1989, and Claire had just finished her first semester at Duke. Her last final – Venture Capital – was now in her rearview mirror and she felt relieved. Balancing the plant precariously under her arm, she hoisted her suitcase down the hall as well. Once she arrived in the lobby, she dropped it in a corner and balanced the plant on top. Glancing at her watch, she had just a few minutes until Mac would pick her up for the start of Christmas break. She couldn't wait to see him; she couldn't wait to spend every day with Mac…

Claire flipped through the last mail in her box. On top lay a telephone bill addressed to "CLAIRE CONRAD." Beneath it was a tuition statement for next semester addressed to "Ms. Claire F. Conrad." Two credit card solicitations stared back at her, addressed to "Claire F Conrad." But the one that made her smile was the business-sized envelope with a hand-written address in block letters: MISS CLAIRE FRANCES CONRAD.

Only Mac used the more old-fashioned prefix of "Miss" and only Mac consistently spelled out her entire middle name. Claire liked how it looked in his simple handwriting. Mac said it was pretty, an oddly-romantic statement from the man who didn't profess them often. She couldn't wait to read the letter, but resisted for a moment until the lobby emptied. She wanted a quiet location so she could savor each word that fell from the page.

Mac possessed a romantic's heart, she would tease him. He denied it, but his eyes sparkled when he did. He could speak from the heart in his letters, and Claire had come to expect great revelations about their relationship or profound views on topics about which she had given only brief consideration. Most of the time, her boyfriend was inscrutable but he could write deep-seated feelings and thoughts through articulate prose. Sometimes he wrote a single paragraph but other times he rambled on for three pages. She had come to treasure those notes, letters, even essays, and it pleased her to no end that although he called nightly, he still made time to write.

Claire found a quiet corner on the sofa in the lobby, tucked her legs under her body and opened the letter.

* * *

_Dear Claire,_

_We just hung up the phone and it's too quiet here. I'm sure you're too busy to think of me as much as I think of you. I bet you're sitting in your room studying for that Venture Capital final (and just what is that, again?). Hey … I forgot to tell you when we talked – Don't overwater that plant from Elise. Since you're bringing it with you, I looked it up at the library yesterday (yes, that's my secret - I'm not a walking encyclopedia of plant knowledge). It's susceptible to root rot but if we're careful, it should be okay. Still, though, watch out. And maybe you can remind me why you agreed to do this. It seems to be an awful lot of effort for someone you don't like that much. My guess is you're doing it for the plant more than Elise… _

_So why am I writing only moments after hanging up the phone? Is it possible I miss you? Yes. I do. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I'm not. And it wouldn't be any better if you just were ten miles away. I like being with you and anything less than that won't do. _

_I guess that's a prologue to the real purpose of my letter, and once again it appears your less-than-articulate boyfriend has to resort to pen and paper to say what he means. I hope you don't hold it against me… Perhaps, one day, I'll be able to speak some things that matter. I do regret that, but I'm trying. I'm only thankful you know me well enough to know I try. Please remember that when I'm fumbling over my words. _

_I've been thinking a lot about last week and how we left things. I regret snapping at you. And I'm sorry I used my dad's illness to make you feel bad. Of course, in the end, you wouldn't let it become a big deal between us. So, you flipped it and next thing I know, you're doing what I wanted at the start: You're coming to Chicago with me. And guess what? I wasn't all that happy about that either. You could tell – I know you could – and I saw how that made you feel._

_So, let me tell you what I've learned from three days of self-examination. If you'll indulge me, I'd like to change my mind again. I know you … You're rolling your eyes at my annoying flip flop. "Come on, Mac. You're not normally so fickle!" Yes, I hear you, loud and clear. _

_But read these words and know that I mean them: You've done everything to make us work. You've traveled, moved, risked your family, given up your social life. You're too kind to say that maybe it's my turn. But it's true. It's my turn. And, I'm very sorry I needed to be reminded. So here's what I want to do: I want to go to New York with you. _

_Please don't say no. And definitely, don't parrot my words back at me. No – don't remind me how awful it was to tell you my dad is sick. He'll be sick in January too and I can go home then. Besides, I never did buy those tickets to Chicago. Something told me to hold back._

_I know you. My Claire is already preparing her argument. "You said you _needed _to be there, Mac! Don't change your mind out of some ill-conceived sense of obligation to make me happy." Trust me, I know what I said, but this is what I should have said: I love my parents. But I will still love them in January. And it wouldn't be the happy hot-chocolate-after-ice-skating Christmas that you deserve. This year, it's going to be a lot of sorting out what has become a big hot mess in Chicago. (Isn't that your phrase? I like it.) _

_Honestly, Claire, if it was just me? It matters little to me if I'm in Chicago or New York. I only want to be with you. But it's not just me, and the honest-to-God truth that needs to be acknowledged is that it matters to you. So now it matters to me. I know we try to make decisions together, but I hope you'll let me make this one for both of us: New York it is. Now let me know when we're leaving._

_I'll come get you on Monday._

_~ Mac_

* * *

Claire looked up towards the door when she heard it open. Somehow she knew it would be Mac. He stood in the lobby and Claire held up the letter in her hand. He nodded. "I just got it," she declared.

"Mail was slow, I guess," he said, sitting beside her.

"It _is _Christmas," she replied, adjusting her position so she could rest her hand on his thigh.

They sat in silence for a few moments and then Mac asked, "So what do you think?"

"I think you are such a _GIRL_," Claire teased. Mac looked offended, furrowing his brow. "Changing your mind at the drop of a hat. First Chicago. Then New York. Good God, Mac," she smiled. He shrugged. Claire shook her head and deadpanned, "I'll forgive you just this once. But don't _ever _do it again."

"Do what?" Mac asked.

"Make a decision for both of us." She smiled then and leaned up to kiss his lips. "Oh my god," she whispered. "I can't believe how much I love you."


	9. Nowhere To Go

A/N: I was waiting for a moment to put Mac in peril. LOL. Poor guy. I tried to tie up a few loose ends from last chapter ... I hid them down below.

I don't own any CSI:NY characters.

* * *

**Nowhere to Go**

Claire eased herself into the first-class window seat near the front of the plane. Her stomach flip-flopped with nerves, and she tried to remember the words Mac's friend, Dave, had said over the telephone. "He's a little roughed up, but he'll be fine. I just thought you might want to be there when he arrives stateside." _He'll be fine_, she heard his voice say. _He'll be fine_, she repeated to herself like a mantra.

Six weeks ago, when Mac had driven to Duke on a Tuesday night to inform her he was being deployed, Claire had nodded stoically. She had known that eventually she would weather one of his deployments and had tried to prepare herself. She would not cry. She would not be needy. He would not leave worried about her. She would handle it like a pro. She took comfort in Mac's words: _Only six weeks. Based in Hawaii. Maybe a week or two in Guam. But it's not that big a deal. Just a few training exercises._

To be honest, she didn't believe him. His eyes flitted away from her when he used the words, "training exercises." But she wasn't naïve, and it really didn't matter if she knew precisely what he was doing. She had already guessed from Mac's description of his work that once in a while he would do things he couldn't tell her. All she knew was that he would be in the South Pacific for six weeks, and when he returned home, they could go back to seeing each other every weekend. Still, she missed him tremendously, and the letters that she received a few times a week were dog-eared from handling.

_I miss you too. Just a bit longer, Claire. Don't worry about me. I'm fine. And you should see Hawaii. The water is tranquil blue and the air literally smells like flowers. You'd love it. I'd like to come here with you under different circumstances. _

She had been counting down the days on the calendar. Little by little, as the date neared, the fear and worry that she hadn't realized she was carrying, began to lift.

So she had been surprised to get a call from Mac's friend, Dave. Who was he again? she asked herself. It took a few moments for recognition. His voice was calm and soothing, which somehow made her anxious, but he urged her not to worry. He explained slowly and clearly that Mac had been through some kind of ordeal and was coming home injured. _Nothing big_, he hurried. _But you might want to be there. _At first, Claire fumbled over transportation. She didn't own a car. How would she get to base? _No, no,_ Dave said. _He'll be at the Naval Hospital at Camp Pendleton. In San Diego. Can you get to San Diego?_

The only way to get to San Diego was to fly there, and the only way to buy a ticket was to call her dad, and her dad – regardless of his feelings about the status of Claire and Mac – placed a call to United, and within three hours, Claire was on a two-leg trip to San Diego.

* * *

Mac knew before he hit the ground that he was coming in too fast. He braced himself for an impact that would crack a rib or two, although the precise number would be somewhat of a mystery to him until he landed on American soil. The pain seared through his body, but it was manageable, and so Mac forged forward with his men.

A brief burst of fire startled them, but the Marines reacted quickly. A short gun battle ensued, but within twenty minutes, the enemy was eliminated. Mac swung his weapon over his back and swallowed the pain that extended into his shoulders with every footfall. They crashed into a house, pulled open a wooden trap door in the ground and reached down to pull out the asset that the United States wanted to deny existed. Still, he was an American citizen trapped in enemy territory, and his relevance was enough that his country had parachute-dropped eight Marines to rescue the young lad.

Mac shoved the stunned man forward and urged him to run, run, run! They had three miles before crossing the border to a waiting rescue chopper, and Mac preferred to spend most of it under cover of jungle. He heard the warning just as he turned and found himself face-to-face with the sole remaining soldier of a desperate enemy. Mac flung himself on top of the target of the rescue operation in an effort to protect him. He had confidence that his men would eliminate the soldier before he got past Mac. Still, a swift kick to already broken ribs sent Mac flying with all breath knocked out of him. Just as he turned, the heavy butt of a gun against his jaw darkened all reality.

* * *

He wasn't going to die, Mac knew that much, but it would sure help if he could breathe better. Deep breaths were painful, shallow breaths caused his chest to expand too often. He settled for a slow inhale through his nose that expanded in his diaphragm. He tried breathing through his mouth, but it didn't open enough. He felt his face with his fingers. The swelling was prominent, and he guessed he had a jaw fracture.

Memories were fuzzy. He recalled people shouting at him. He wasn't moving fast enough. Someone grabbed his gear. Someone else pulled at his shirt. Faces blurred together. Voices were too loud and then too quiet. He hurt all over but he had to run so he did. He had trouble sticking to the path and he tripped easily. The ground moved beneath him. He vomited twice and that caused some panic and an ensuing barrage of annoying questions: _Who's the President? What year is it? What's your middle name? Where were you born?_ He could answer them all, although his words were mumbled, and the question about the year took embarrassingly long.

He knew he had been assisted to the rescue chopper and that later, he had spent some time on the ground in Hawaii. He vaguely remembered a conversation that they would prefer to get him to the mainland for further medical care. He was pretty certain he had been rolled into a narrow tube that would have been claustrophobic had he not been so woozy. He also remembered a man with a non-English accent informing him that they would make him comfortable for the trip home.

The comfort was wearing off, Mac wanted to tell someone. Instead, he was blinking in confusion at a bright light that was suddenly in his eyes. Once the flashlight was out, Mac was face-to-face with a Marine medic with sympathetic eyes – they were the same color as Claire's. _Jesus God, _he thought. _What would he tell Claire?_ He tried to relax. She was still at Duke. He had another week to go before he'd see her. By that time, he'd have his story straight. He could tell her he fell. Tripped over a tree root. Slipped down a hill. That would work. Or maybe –

"Captain Taylor," the medic interrupted. Mac blinked, his eyes landing on the wall just beyond the medic. "Stay with me, sir," he gently ordered. With some effort, Mac forced his eyes back to his face. The medic nodded, satisfied for the moment. Then, he said the sweetest words Mac had ever heard. "I'm going to get you something for the pain."

He tried to get Mac to swallow two chalky white tablets. Mac's jaw, though, wouldn't cooperate, so the medic crushed them into powder and coated Mac's tongue by ignoring his moan and stuffing a latex-covered finger into his mouth. The granules dissolved with his saliva, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste. Still, they dulled the pain enough for Mac to sleep a little.

His cheek was still cold from some sort of ice pack that had been tucked around his face. A few moments ago, though, one of his colleagues had inadvertently woken him by removing the pack and gently lifting his head onto a pillow. The gesture was considerate, but now, as his face warmed, pain began to radiate from his jaw to his neck. Mac craved the numbness but lacked the energy to say so. Instead, to focus on something other than pain, he tried to count the metal tiles on the wall of the plane. They swam before his eyes and he felt sick. He didn't want to throw up; that act forced him to open his mouth and it put undue pressure on his ribs. His pain level would shoot from a manageable seven to an unbearable ten. He closed his eyes, willing the feeling to go away.

"Captain Taylor," a quiet voice said from above, a light touch on Mac's shoulder. Mac didn't respond. _Please go away. Can't you see I'm sick? _"Captain Taylor," it repeated. Mac opened an eye. His face was familiar, but true recognition flitted just beyond his reach.

"Uh huh," Mac murmured. His tongue felt thick and the sound was slurred, even to Mac's ears. He couldn't even be certain that he spoke.

The man standing above him swayed – or was it Mac's imagination? But he spoke again. "We're landing soon, Captain. The pilot would prefer you strapped into a seat for landing, if possible." Mac closed his eyes. He couldn't pull himself to a seat even if he tried. "Can you get up, Captain?" he asked quietly, leaning over. He reached for Mac's arm near the shoulder. Mac took in a breath and tried not to wince as he was gently turned. Only then did Mac realize it was the medic who had treated him before. Mac lay on his side now and the medic helped him get to an upright position. Mac groaned at the pain that shot through his body. "Okay," the man said quietly, setting him back down. "You lay down, Captain. I'll tell the pilot it's a no-go."

He shivered as he rest. The medic lay a scratchy wool blanket on top of him. He closed his eyes, fading into nothingness.

* * *

_Mac, it's me. Can you hear me? _

Claire.

_Hey! Baby, can you hear me? I'm here. _

I hear you. I'm trying to tell you.

_He's moaning. He's in pain. Why doesn't he open his eyes? _

I'm trying. Just give me a second. I can make them open.

_He's okay, Miss. The drugs made him a little woozy. Captain Taylor, someone's here for you. Wake up for her. She's worried._

Claire, don't worry. Please don't worry.

_Captain Taylor, can you hear me? Can you move your hand? _

I can do that. But where's Claire?

_Good. You hear us. You're at the hospital. You're gonna be fine. We're going to take care of you_.

Who are you? Where's Claire?

_You're a little banged up, sir. Just hang in there, Captain. _

I want Claire. Claire.

_Mac, I'm right here. Do you hear me?_

Yes. Yes.

_Don't try to talk, baby. I'm here. _

Don't leave.

_Miss, you have to stay back. We can't have everyone back there._

No. Don't send her away.

_Who's everyone? I'm the only one here._

That's my Claire.

_Ma'am, you have to stay back._

No, no.

_I'll stay out of the way, but I'm coming. _

Oh god, I love her.

_Miss, please. Wait here. We'll let you know. _

Claire, I need you.

_No, I'm staying with Mac. I'm here, baby. I'm staying with you._

Stay with me.

* * *

Mac opened his eyes and blinked twice, getting his bearings. Gently, he tried to open his mouth. Surprised to realize he could do it, he experimented slowly by opening it little by little until the pain hampered his efforts. It was better than before. He could taste blood in the back of his mouth, and he suspected that had something to do with the improvement. He moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth; he was startled to realize he was missing a few teeth in the back. _Ugh, _he thought. He hated dental work.

He turned his head and looked around. He was alone in the hospital room. He looked down at his arms. An IV was attached although he could see it was nothing more than saline. A plastic bracelet hung from his wrist: NAVAL HOSPITAL CAMP PENDLETON, it said. _San Diego,_ he thought. _Why did I think Claire was here? _He could have sworn he heard her, although he was aware that he had been confused in the moments after he landed. Pain medication did goofy things to him, especially at high doses.

He turned towards the door at a slight sound. Claire stood, leaning against the doorjamb, a cup of coffee in her hand. He could smell the intoxicating scent from the bed. "It's about time," she said with a smile.

He opened his mouth and started to ask, "Wha-"

The sounds were slurred but Mac was healing. He would have kept talking if Claire hadn't interrupted. "You can't talk yet," she said, walking into the room. He shook his head. Yes, he _could _talk. She set the coffee cup on the mobile tray beside him and rest the back of her hand on his forehead as if she was checking him for fever. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her hand lingering in his hair. She explained, "You had surgery." He blinked in surprise and looked down. Surely not his ribs? "Oral surgery, Mac," she scolded. "You go off to god-knows-where, and I mean that quite literally because no one will tell me where you've been…" He tried to smile a bit but Claire would have none of it. She continued to admonish him, "And you return with three cracked ribs, broken teeth, and a dislocated jaw that required oral surgery."

He managed a simple shrug of a shoulder. Claire stood up and sat down on the chair beside his bed. She toed off her shoe and rest her foot on the edge of his bed. Now he saw the sparkle in her eyes. "How di- "

"Don't try to talk," she scolded. "I don't think your mouth even works yet," she teased, gently now. "Just rest." He shook his head; he had questions. She leaned forward and cupped his jaw gently. Her touch was soft and it didn't hurt. "Baby," she pleaded in a whispered voice, putting her lips next to his ear. "I know you want to talk, but for now you're going to have to wait."

Mac opened his mouth a little, insisting that he would speak. His tongue felt thick but he managed to say, "Sorr- "

"Mac Taylor, you are not allowed to apologize," she interrupted sternly. "You were just doing your job." He closed his eyes, relieved by her reaction. "And apparently you're damn good at it, judging by all the fuss around you." He opened his eyes, confused. "All these colonels and majors and corporals were constantly introducing themselves to me, shaking my hand and telling me how awesome you are." The corners of his lips turned up. "And don't ask me who they were because they all look the same. Same uniform, same haircut, same 'yes, ma'am' and all that." Mac exhaled comfortably, nodding. He already knew what that was about – they hadn't come as much to check on him, but to make sure she was okay. He was pleased they hadn't left her alone.

"How's your pain?" she asked after a moment. He lifted his thumbs – two thumbs up. "Not so bad then?" she prompted. He shook his head. "Okay … Let me know. They said they'd drug you again if you're in agony." He smiled. "It was the good stuff too, Mac. Morphine. Vicodin. Some other shit that they pumped right into your veins." He chuckled a little and then winced. It hurt to laugh. "Stop," she said. "Don't laugh, Mac." She paused before whispering, "Those drugs make you loopy. I quite like having you lucid."

He nodded. He took a deep breath and forced his tongue to work. "Don' make me laugh," he murmured. "I wan' a stay wit' you."

Claire smiled broadly at his words. He closed his eyes again and heard the sound of the door closing. He wondered if she had left. Instead, she returned to his bedside and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. He felt one hand on his forehead. She tenderly brushed her fingers through his hair. She kissed his closed eyes and her lips brushed against his ear. "Go to sleep," she whispered. "I'll be here when you wake."

* * *

Mac sat on the top of the closed toilet lid and eased his foot up to rest on the wall so he could tie his shoe without bending over too much. "Come on, Mac," he heard an impatient voice on the other side of the door. "Did you get lost in there? Or fall in the toilet maybe?" He smiled a little at Claire's teasing, but he didn't reply. He was still working on his mission, which was to get dressed completely on his own. It was a slow and deliberate dance, and the shoes were the hardest.

Claire had been by his side for the length of his two day hospital stay, and they would fly home together today. Really, once his jaw had been set and the broken teeth removed, his mouth felt better quickly. His ribs were healing too. He touched his side beneath his t-shirt. He was still bruised and sore, but not everywhere.

It was all fixable, although his mouth would probably require a half dozen trips to a periodontist. Mac winced whenever he thought about it. In fact, it was positively cringe-worthy for a man who hated dentistry. So, he tried not to think about it.

He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. His cheek was all shades of purple, green and yellow, and Mac knew Claire had questions. But she hadn't asked them, and he hadn't explained. He didn't intend to either, and he hoped Claire was satisfied. Instead, he had asked questions of her. _How did you hear I was hurt?_ Your friend Dave. _Aren't you missing class? _Just a few. I'll make 'em up. _How did you get to the airport? _Elise drove me.

He had also learned that her father had flown her here, and he made a mental note to thank him next time he saw him. He liked the man, although he was the polar opposite of his father. The holiday break in New York had been good for his connection with Claire's family. He had gone to the gym twice to play basketball with her brothers. He had assisted her mother with clean up duty in the kitchen after every meal. _Your mom trained you well_, Claire's mother said, which he decided was a compliment. And he had sat up two nights of four with Claire's father, watching movies and talking about the state of the U.S. military. When he had left, Claire's mother had kissed him on the cheek and Claire's father had embraced him. Things were decidedly improving, Mac thought.

He had visited his parents just weeks later at a time that wasn't convenient for Claire. He wanted her to meet them, and so he hoped that over the summer they could arrange it. His father wasn't well, that was evident to Mac. He had lost weight and strength, and Mac could see why he had retired. Still, though, the doctors hadn't given up hope. There was another chemo to try, they said. Maybe it would shrink the cancer a bit and buy him more time. His father was increasingly aware that he was nearing the end. Funeral arrangements and cemetery plots became topics of conversation. It was painful to hear, and Mac was uneasy discussing it, but when he looked at his mother, he appreciated his father's determination to plan ahead. Having decided that time might be short, Mac sat in the living room and leaned forward. He looked his father in the eye and informed him that he planned to ask Claire to marry him. His father nodded, smiled a little and then reached over and squeezed Mac's knee. "Well, well, well," he said in his typical understated manner. "That's news, I guess."

Claire was now 21, still too young to get married, Mac thought, but old enough to know what she wanted. Aside from Mac, she wanted an MBA, and she was selecting potential grad schools. If Mac stayed in the Marines, he knew that Duke would be the only one on her list. He also knew she'd be happier somewhere else. For the first time, he broached with her the topic of retirement from the Marines. She encouraged him to do what he wanted; it was his decision, she said. But, she added hesitantly, University of Chicago, or NYU, or Columbia would be her top three choices for grad school. Chicago or New York. Two good options. So for the first time, Mac was seriously contemplating what else he would do in life.

This mini deployment and the stress it put on her helped him see the appeal of retirement. She didn't like being apart from him. She wrote about it in her letters, and it was hard for her. She didn't mention that she worried, but he guessed that might be the case too. Regardless, if they got married, she would want a family man, someone who came home every night. _And be honest, _Mac told himself. _You want that too._

He opened the door to the bathroom and gingerly stepped into the hospital room. Claire stood in her jeans with her hair in a ponytail. Her skin was flawless and her lips were shiny with a hint of peach lip gloss. Her hand held a small plastic bag that contained Mac's possessions. "You feeling better?" she asked.

"A lot," he said with a nod.

"You still look like hell," she added dramatically. She reached out and traced his cheek and then his mouth. His lip was still swollen, and one eye was bruised. "I suppose that's from the surgery." He nodded again, even though it wasn't.

She smiled and exhaled slowly. "Let's go home."

"Okay," Mac said, reaching down to link his fingers with hers. She started to walk, but Mac tugged her back. He leaned down and gently pressed his lips against hers. "I really am glad you were here."

She blushed and her eyes shone at his sincerity. His emotion was genuine and intense. She nodded and then she whispered back, "Nowhere else to be, Mac."


	10. Last Night of the World

A/N: I don't own the CSI:NY characters

* * *

**Last Night of the World**

Claire leaned back in the waiting room chair and flipped through the latest issue of _Glamour _magazine. The dental office smelled of antiseptic and fluoride and she knew Mac would hurry out as soon as he was done. Just a quick checkup, he had been assured. Eight visits after his ordeal in the South Pacific and Mac had a full set of teeth that looked better than his real ones. He cringed, though, every time he stepped foot in the office. Claire found it amusing. He had a strong stomach. Blood, sweat and other bodily fluids fascinated him and brought out the scientist in him. Yet, one mention of the dental chair and he was wincing like a frightened toddler.

It was the beginning of August – a hot, steamy time in North Carolina – but Claire had finished her summer school course and she and Mac planned to take a long-awaited trip to Chicago before she began her senior year at Duke. His father's health was declining. Chemo was ineffective. Breathing was labored and he was no longer able to eat. A feeding tube had been inserted, and Mac was preparing for his death over the winter. His primary concern was his mother, who would be alone for the first time in her life. Claire wondered how that would impact Mac's serious contemplation of future prospects.

He liked being a Marine so, understandably, Mac had mixed feelings when thinking about new opportunities. Claire had suggested the police force. To her, being a police officer was the closest thing to being a Marine officer. Mac had smiled and nodded. It had crossed his mind too, he admitted. Plus, jumping into a police department with significant military experience would put him a notch or two higher on the pay scale and ease the promotion grid.

Blithely, he had mentioned grad school, but he seemed hesitant about limiting his income-earning potential, even temporarily, particularly when an MBA was Claire's logical next step. She was applying to Duke and Chapel Hill in North Carolina, but if Mac would retire, she would go elsewhere: NYU, Columbia, University of Chicago, or, maybe even Wharton at Penn. All were good schools, but they depended on Mac. For his part, he preferred not to hold the trump card, suggesting that, this time, Claire should pick the school and he would follow. She liked that idea, and if left to make a unilateral decision, she would pick a New York school. Still, given that Mac's only living relative would be in Chicago, U of C was now a front-runner. _Give it time, _Mac said. There's a lot to sort through.

Claire lifted her head, startled to see Mac standing in the waiting room, his hands resting on his hips. He had exited the examination room, but instead of high-tailing it out of the building, he stood immobile, his face trained on the television mounted to the wall. It was interrupting with breaking news. IRAQ INVADES KUWAIT, the screen said. "Mac?" Claire asked, setting the magazine down on the table. "You okay? How are your teeth?"

"My teeth are fine," he replied quietly, his eyes not leaving the television.

She stood up and crossed the room and stood beside him. She looked up at the television and asked, "What's that mean?"

"It's not good," Mac said quietly. He broke away from his reverie and nodded towards the door. He smiled now and said, "Let's get out of here. My teeth are fine. Let's eat something crunchy."

* * *

Something was in the wind, Claire could sense it. She stood in Mac's bedroom folding freshly-laundered jeans and t-shirts and setting them into a suitcase. A routine action, she realized, and still she waited for the other shoe to drop. Mac had some clothes piled on top of the dresser, ready for their trip, but a second laundry basket was full of whites that needed folding. Chagrined and embarrassed, he had asked her gently if she minded finishing his laundry. He had been called unexpectedly to a series of meetings on base. Vacation or not, he needed to attend them.

Claire was smart. She watched the news too, and she heard the implicit threat in President Bush's statement on Monday: _This aggression will not stand_. She knew that meant the United States would be putting boots on the ground in Kuwait. She had asked Mac if he thought he would be among them. He had avoided her gaze, answering with a cryptic, _It's hard to say. _His body language said it all, and she had already begun to brace herself for the announcement. This one would be a true deployment on foreign soil.

She had loads of questions. Some of them were long-term like "What does a deployment mean for your plans to retire from the Marines?" Others were short-term like, "Can we still go to Chicago tomorrow?" She hadn't asked any of them, though, because Mac hadn't even uttered the D-word. She also felt selfish. With everything going on – like basic human rights being trampled on the other side of the globe – how could she ask about their little world here? So, she stayed quiet, hoping Mac would answer them without being asked.

She heard him enter the apartment and she called, "I'm back here." She zipped her suitcase and looked up when he appeared in the doorway. "Your laundry needs to be folded," she said, pointing at the basket on the floor.

"Thanks for washing it," he said quietly, bending over and setting the basket on the bed.

"How were your meetings?" she asked, her gaze firmly on his face. He didn't reply; his jaw was set. Instead, he reached for a matching pair of socks and rolled them up. "Mac?" she asked. "Did you hear me?" He nodded once, but he continued to focus on the laundry. She reached out and took a white t-shirt out of his hands. "You need to talk to me," she said firmly. He exhaled and looked at her with hesitant eyes. She folded the t-shirt and set it neatly on his pile of clothes. Then she arched her eyebrows and waited.

"It's gonna happen," he said quietly.

"You're being deployed," she concluded. He nodded subtly. "When?" she breathed.

"Not sure. Anytime actually. It could be as early as end of next week; maybe the week after." Claire blinked in shock and her jaw dropped. "Probably September though. I don't know really. Timing changes every day."

"But you're going. For sure," she said. He nodded, chewing his bottom lip. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. They're estimating six to nine months. If it goes on longer? They'll rotate us out after a year." Claire nodded, but inside she was deflated. This would be a _real _war, and it hadn't even started yet. A year from now, she'd be starting grad school. Mac could still be overseas. It sounded like a lifetime to her.

"Yeah," he breathed. "I have a lot to get in order to be gone that long, but I think …" His voice trailed off and then he finished, "But I think we should still go to Chicago." She looked up at him, surprised. His eyes were serious. "I need to get home before I get shipped out. I … I have to see my dad." Claire barely nodded, but reached out and squeezed his hand. He was aware he would not likely see his father again. "Uh …" Mac said, emotion catching up with him. He was lost for words. Claire only waited. After a moment, he swallowed and said, "It's important to me that you meet him." She smiled. "So we should go." A swift nod, and it was decided.

Claire finished packing her suitcase and Mac finished folding the laundry. They didn't speak, each independently processing the news. She turned to leave the bedroom when Mac called, "Hey." She stopped in the doorway. He said, "Claire." She turned. A zipped suitcase, a basket of folded laundry and a double bed separated them. "You know I want to marry you, right?" he blurted. He chewed his bottom lip and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

Claire lifted her chin, more confident than Mac at this moment. She waited until he stopped his nervous ticks. "I know," she said boldly. "And you know I'd say yes, right?"

He smiled a little, even chuckled. He crossed the room and tilted her chin towards him with his thumb. He leaned forward and kissed her, whispering as he pulled back, "Promise me you won't worry, okay?"

She wrapped her hand around his neck and held him close. She took a deep breath, asking for inner strength as she said what she didn't feel. "You listen to me," she whispered. He smiled. Claire didn't blink. "I get to worry because I spend my days in Raleigh-Durham, hardly a bastion for peril and jeopardy. But you, on the other hand, will not spend one second worrying about me. You focus on the mission and get it done so you can come home." Mac looked away. Claire ordered, "Look at me. Right now." Mac turned back and his eyes met hers. "Do I look scared?" He shook his head. "So you remember this face when you start worrying. I got this, Mac." Mac squeezed his eyes shut and then sighed. He shook his head in dismay, overwhelmed by Claire's bravery. "And when you get back?" He nodded, waiting. "You can buy me a ring," she smiled.

* * *

They sat at a back table in a dark corner of the pizza joint. An all vegetable pie, with half-sausage, sat on the table, a pitcher of beer between them. Claire laughed brightly, the sound echoed against the walls. Mac took a long drink from his frosty mug and then shook his head, waving his finger at her. "That's not it," he said. "You got it wrong. It is _always _the same ratio." She scoffed, the smile not leaving her face. "You have a pen?" he asked.

She pulled out a ballpoint pen from her purse and watched as Mac slid a white napkin between them. He drew a grid with four boxes and started to inform, "So Mendel's law of independent assortment says that alleles separate during the formation of gametes, and that separate genes for separate traits are passed independently of one another."

"That's real clear," Claire said sarcastically. He held his finger up. _Wait. I'll show you_, he said with his expression. Claire rolled her eyes. "Do you think this is sexy?" she asked.

"So," he continued, ignoring her dig, "that's why if _purple _is dominant and _white _is recessive, you get these results, which means _purple _occurs at a 3:1 ratio." She hesitated. "Make sense?" he pressed, sliding the napkin towards her to inspect. Eventually she nodded.

"So add another gene to the mix? Like curly or straight hair. Okay?" She watched, amused as he started to make a bigger grid. "You need sixteen boxes, right?" She rolled her eyes. Mac filled out the grid. "And these results are always found at a 9:3:3:1 ratio."

"Blah, blah, blah…" She pretended to talk with her hands, teasing Mac for his scientific lecture.

"_But_," Mac challenged, a smile on his face. Claire sighed, but listened. "Each gene within this table is independently inherited with a 3:1 ratio." Claire blinked, now thoroughly lost. "See, purple is dominant and we have 12 purple boxes and 4 white boxes which is …"

"A 3:1 ratio," Claire finished. "Okay," she said reluctantly. "I get it." Mac nodded and slid the paper over for Claire to examine. She took the pen from him and said, "So, if I have curly hair and you have straight hair, and I have perfect teeth and you have –"

"Stop," Mac laughed, reaching for the pen.

She held it just out of his reach and kept going, "So that means, our kids will have … I guess curly hair and perfect teeth are probably both recessive so our kids will be …" She started filling out the grid. After a second, she looked at him. "These ratios aren't good, Mac. All of my good traits are going to get pushed out by yours." Mac's eyes sparkled and Claire couldn't erase the grin on her face.

She folded the napkin and tucked it into her purse. Their conversation quieted while Mac finished his beer. Claire pushed her glass around the table. "You want me to fill yours up?" he asked, his hand on the handle of the pitcher.

She shook her head; she still had a quarter glass left. She sipped at it and held the mug with two hands. Mac filled his halfway. "I do have a question for you, though."

"Is it about genetics?" he replied, his eyes sparkling.

She shook her head. He nodded towards her indicating she should go ahead. "Why don't you want to get married before you leave?"

Mac exhaled and laughed out loud. "Well, that's a loaded question," he replied. "I can't answer that one without getting in trouble.

"Have you thought about it?" she asked.

"Thought about the question? Or thought about getting married?"

"Either one," she challenged.

Mac sat back in his chair and appraised Claire. She was smiling coyly, her eyebrows arched, daring him to reply. He nodded and took a deep breath. "I've thought about both, but the right thing for you is to finish school. Then I'll get you a ring and we'll get married."

"Has that worked out for you well?" Mac creased his forehead, waiting for clarification. She gestured between them. "Doing the right thing when it comes to our relationship. How's that worked out for you?"

Mac leaned forward and said, "Are you daring me to marry you?" She smiled and her eyes shone. The corners of Mac's lips turned up. "Because I don't back down from a challenge." Claire giggled a little. Suddenly, Mac turned serious. "I've wanted to marry you for a long time. And sure … once I found out I was being deployed, yeah, it crossed my mind."

"It crossed mine too," Claire said, biting her bottom lip.

Mac shook his head. "But, you deserve a wedding and a family that's behind this and I can't see that happening if we get married next week." Claire sighed. Mac suddenly reached out with his hand and squeezed hers. "Still." She lift her chin. He hesitated and then forged forward, "Don't misunderstand these words for hesitation. I have no doubt that you're the woman I want to marry, and I don't care where we do it, when we do it, what you wear or who is there. I just think that you need a family around you when I leave, and the last thing you need is to be fighting with them because we elope."

"It sounds like you've been thinking a lot about this." Mac shrugged. "More than I knew." She swallowed and then said bravely, "Well, I've thought about it too." Mac smiled and nodded. "And I want to get married." Mac chuckled a little. "I'm just saying … if you asked me to marry you before you leave, I'd say yes." She set her hands on the table, palms down and said, "And that's all I'm saying about it." Mac ran a hand through his hair and nodded.

* * *

It felt like the last night of the world. Mac didn't want to sleep for fear of missing one moment with Claire. She still took care not to hurt his ribs, although he had assured her weeks ago that he was fully healed. Her lips passed over his chest lightly, her fingertips brushed against him, she held her weight off him. Tonight, though, he thought he proved he wasn't injured anymore, and Claire's arms had clung to him tightly.

The emotion was sometimes too intense to describe. He had gripped Claire's hand and whispered he loved her. She had shed a few tears that she didn't try to hide. But she was brave and strong, and Mac had confidence that she would be fine.

He, on the other hand, would be a mess. What kind of man would he be without her? He couldn't imagine it, his identity so wrapped up into being a part of this relationship. Of course, he was only leaving her in the physical sense and that was a very small part of their relationship, he tried to tell himself.

Claire was right, Mac thought as he left the bed for a moment. Nothing about them had ever been conventional. It had been wrong from the start, and that made them right. She was competent and feisty yet warm and soft, all at the same time. He had never met anyone who completed him the way she did. She loved him; he felt it every day. He loved her; he would die trying to show her every day.

"What are you doing?" she asked as he fished through his dresser drawer. "The bed's getting cold without you."

"Nothing," he said. "I just can't sleep."

"Good," she smiled. "I can't either."

Mac returned to bed and she lift the sheet for him. He wore only his sweatpants and Claire wore a stretchy set of rather plain lingerie. She lay on her side, the white sheet draped over her. She reached her hand out and traced the lines around his eyes with her left index finger. He caught her wrist and it made her stop. She tilted her head and he looked at her intently. He pulled out a ring and slid it onto her fourth finger. "Will you marry me?" he whispered confidently.

She looked down at the ruby surrounded by a ring of tiny white diamonds, an unconventional engagement gift for a remarkable woman. She blinked in shock. "You have a ring," she commented, dumbfounded.

"You didn't answer me," he said, smiling at her. "Will you, Claire? Will you marry me?"

"When?" she asked, stunned.

"That's up to you," he said kindly. "Just tell me when and where." She half-laughed as she blinked back some tears. "You still haven't answered me," he said, leaning forward.

"Oh, Mac," she whispered, leaning into him. She brought her hand to her mouth and nodded. "Yes," she said, through her hand. "I'll marry you." She rolled on top of him and hovered over him to kiss his lips. He rolled her around until he was looking down at her. The ruby and diamonds caught the light and reflected against the ceiling. She laughed out loud now, her left hand against his cheek. "It would be my honor to be your wife," she said, entangling her fingers in his hair.

"No, no," Mac smiled, leaning down to her lips. "The honor would be mine."


	11. Good Day

_**Good Day**_

After increased security and delays due to mechanical issues, Claire and Mac arrived in Chicago at just before midnight. It was a 70 minute cab ride from O'Hare through the back streets of gritty Chicago, with Mac exchanging words with the cabbie over the final destination. "I won't get a fare back," he complained.

"That's why it costs us eighty bucks," Mac retorted quietly. Claire smiled; she relished being in the big city again.

Claire had fallen asleep on the way to Mac's house, but when they pulled into the driveway, she perked up. She was anxious to meet his family. The home was dark inside, though, and Mac quietly shut the trunk after taking out their luggage. He tipped the cabbie nicely, Claire noted, who left before the couple was inside. Mac tapped quietly on the thick wooden door. He peeked through the window and then sensing nothing, stepped back and lift the doormat, pulling out the key. He unlocked two deadbolts and the doorknob before pushing the door open with his shoulder. "Three locks," he commented to Claire. "And the key's right here." He shook his head in dismay. Claire stepped across the threshold and immediately noted how hot it was inside. "Jesus Christ," Mac muttered. "It's like a sauna in here."

"No central air?" she asked, sniffing the air. It smelled stale, like sickness had seeped into the walls and clung to the drapes. Mac frowned. He sensed it too, she realized, and he immediately opened a window in the living room. "That's a great idea," she whispered sarcastically. "You just complained about the key. Let's leave the window wide open and just invite the burglars in." He left the window open, though, muttering something about not being able to breathe in the home.

He turned on a lamp in the living room and nodded towards the closed door to the left. "I think my dad sleeps in there now." The light cast a dim glow throughout the room, just enough to guide the pair. He crossed through the room, and Claire followed, noticing the surroundings of the small room. A sofa with white sheets covering it, a comfortable chair with a rose-colored knit blanket resting on top, an old-fashioned television and a shelf full of mementos rounded out the furnishings. A few family photographs and a framed floral print decorated the wall. A staircase led upwards on the right.

Mac turned all the lights on in the kitchen and dropped the luggage on the linoleum floor. The small kitchen was functional, yet dated, although the fluorescent lights made everything look dingy. Claire tried not to stare, but she couldn't help it. Her mom's kitchen in Brooklyn was twice the size and recently remodeled. Here, the countertops were butcher block and the cabinets were a dark wood that was popular in the seventies. The white stove looked relatively new but it didn't match the older yellow refrigerator. A floral wallpaper border stretched around the top of the wall near the ceiling.

Mac nodded towards the oak table, indicating that she should sit. Claire shook her head, still feeling stiff from their travels. Her fingers lingered on a note from his mother, informing Mac where he and Claire should sleep – separately, of course – and telling him to heat up some chicken soup if they were hungry. "Chicken soup?" Claire teased. "It's hotter than hell in here. Which makes soup a very odd choice." Mac rolled his eyes and opened another window. She fanned herself a little with her hand and noted that Mac's forehead was already glistening with sweat.

"It's probably hotter upstairs," he said. Then he arched his eyebrows and tapped the note on the counter. He said sternly, "That's where you sleep, according to my mother."

"Great," she said listlessly. She crouched down and dug through her tote bag and retrieved a 20 ounce bottle of Diet Coke, half empty from their trip. Mac opened the refrigerator with a tug and asked if she'd prefer iced tea. She shook her head and opened the bottle with a hiss before taking a long drink.

Claire turned when she heard shuffling in the doorway. A thin old man with white hair held onto the doorjamb for balance. His eyes were sunken, but they were the same color as Mac's, and Claire saw the resemblance. His chest rose and fell with each breath. "You must be … Claire," he said, requiring two breaths to get the sentence out.

Mac turned, surprised to hear the voice. His jaw dropped. He was unable to hide his shock at his father's appearance. "Dad," he said, disbelief evident in his voice. Claire smiled and introduced herself, anxious to cover for Mac. He held out his hand and she took it. Surprising her, his grip was firm and strong.

Mac moved their bags out of the way and hovered nearby as his father shuffled through the kitchen. His step was off balance, and Claire feared he would fall. But his hand first touched the counter and then the table to steady himself. He eased himself into the chair slowly and then the last few inches, he released himself with a huff. "So this is the woman … you're marrying," he said to Mac, again requiring two noisy breaths.

"Yes sir," Mac said quietly, eying his father with worry.

McKenna Taylor looked towards her. His eyes were fixed on her smile, but he sat in silence trying to catch his breath. He inhaled and exhaled noisily for a few moments and then he said to Claire, "Congratulations." He hadn't released a smile yet, but his lips were turning up in the corners.

Mac sat down across the table from him. "I called cousin Jeff, and he said he'd marry us. So we'll get married in a church, sir," He was trying to keep the conversation focused on something other than his father's condition, but it was clear he was utterly distracted by the sharp decline in his health. His father nodded, but still struggled to breathe. Claire's eyes were wide, and she looked at Mac in worry. He swallowed and then asked, "Dad, do you need something right now? To help you breathe?"

"Maybe," he began, breathing in and out. "The oxygen," he said. "It's in …"

"The den?" Mac finished, already standing up to retrieve it. His father's hands were shaky when he returned, but Mac was steady as he helped him adjust the oxygen near his nose. It seemed the duty of caring for his father had cleared the shock from his head. "Okay? Did that help?" he asked quietly. Mac rest his hand on his father's shoulder and shook it gently in the way a parent gives support to a child. Claire noticed the tender gesture and smiled. But, his father seemed annoyed by it, even angry, she thought.

"Claire," McKenna said, ignoring his son. "What do your … parents do?" Claire sat down and talked with the man for a while, trying to fill the space with her words rather than listening to him struggle to speak. Mac chimed in periodically, but he mostly sat in the periphery, examining his father with sharp eyes. Claire spoke of Duke, her economics major, her father's job, her brother's sports teams. She felt self-centered as she spoke solely about herself, yet McKenna seemed interested, and Mac seemed relieved that his father could sit and listen without struggling.

Suddenly, another voice interrupted them. "It was getting loud in here. I couldn't sleep." Claire looked up and saw Mac's mother standing in the doorway. Her hair was up in an old-fashioned bun, and she had a white terry-cloth robe pulled tight around her body, evidently oblivious to the heat. Her words were scolding, but her eyes were sparkling and she stepped all the way into the kitchen, her arms extended for Mac. He kissed her cheek as she pulled him into a tight embrace. "The noise is very welcome," she smiled, her hand holding his head tightly to her. "It hasn't been a good day," she whispered under her breath. Claire heard, though, and saw that she was indicating to Mac with her eyes that his father had not done well that day. Mac nodded subtly but was lost at what to do. "We're so glad you're here," she said loud enough for everyone to hear.

Claire moved at the table, calling Mac's attention away from his mother. He pulled back and nodded towards Claire. "Mom," he said. "This is –"

"Claire," she smiled, turning towards her. Claire stood up and his mother placed her hands on Claire's arms as if she was going to hug her. She stopped herself, worried perhaps that she was moving too fast. "I'm so happy to meet you," she said sincerely. "And congratulations too."

Claire nodded and then said, "And thank _you_, Mrs. Taylor." She held her hand out to display the sparkling ruby and diamond engagement ring. "Mac tells me this used to be your mother's." Millie Taylor reached for her hand and nodded in approval. It was beautiful.

His mother suddenly glanced at the open window. "McKenna! You _have_ to leave these windows shut!"

"I did that, Mom," Mac said. "It's too hot in here. It's not good to have all this stale air floating around." She began to respond when Mac continued, "Look at Claire. She's sweating."

His mother shook her head, moving towards the window. "It's ragweed season," she explained. She reached for the top of the window and with some effort, pushed it closed. "Your father cannot breathe with all the pollen in the air. We need to keep the air clean to help him breathe."

Mac tilted his head and asked rhetorically, "Since when does Dad have allergies?"

"Since I got sick," his father barked. "Leave the windows alone," he ordered.

Mac blinked at the sharp tone and Claire reached out and touched his arm. "It's okay, Mac." She looked at his father, wondering at the relationship between her fiancé and this man. His father's eyes were full of regret at his harsh words, she could see it, yet Mac looked irritated. His jaw was clenched and he was pacing the room with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Sick or not, his father didn't need to speak that way, she could practically hear Mac's thoughts. "I think we'll be fine," she assured Mac's mother. "And thank you," she said, anxious to change the subject. "Thank you for letting me stay here tonight."

* * *

Mac stood in the opulent lobby of the Peninsula Hotel in Chicago and wondered if Claire was aware he was here. At the news that Claire and Mac would be married by the end of the week, her family had caught one of the first flights out of New York and arrived earlier that day. The bit of tradition in Mac suggested that she might want to stay with her parents the last remaining nights before their wedding. Claire resisted a bit, but after passing a near-sleepless night in a hot, humid house, she agreed. The Peninsula Hotel was air-conditioned.

While Mac and Claire were applying for a marriage license earlier that day, her father had called and left a message with Mac's mother. He was inviting him – more like summoning him, Mac thought – for dinner. No restaurant was named, but Millie had told her son to be in the lobby by six. A few minutes early would be good, she hinted. _This is important_, she told him. So here Mac was, waiting at the appointed time and location, and his future father-in-law was nowhere to be found.

Mac swayed on the balls of his feet, clearly nervous. He thought about what he could say to convince a skeptical father that he would make his daughter happy, because, in the end, that's all he wanted. At six minutes past, the elevator bell dinged and Claire's father exited. Mac waved and then reached out to shake Will Conrad's hand. They hadn't seen each other since Christmas, an entire lifetime ago. Mac was glad he wore a sport coat. Mr. Conrad wore a suit and tie for the occasion, although it hardly surprised Mac. He rest his hands on his hips and waited for Mr. Conrad to announce their destination. "So," he said. "Is the hotel restaurant good? Or can you suggest something else?"

"I've never eaten here," Mac replied. "I'm sure it's great, though." He hesitated, not relishing the prospect of running into Claire while sitting alone with her father. Then he asked, "What do you like? There's a decent Mexican place not far from here. A few steakhouses too."

"Where do the locals go for Italian?" Mac's father asked.

"Little Italy," Mac replied without a beat. "It's a quick cab ride or a slow bus," he smiled, knowing that "Billy" – as Claire called him behind his back – would never ride a CTA bus. They didn't speak much on the way, just brief small talk about traveling plans. Mac had selected a popular restaurant well-known in Chicago. It was on the edge of a gritty Italian neighborhood. Two blocks away was inner-city. Still, Mr. Conrad seemed to approve, nodding in admiration at the black and white photographs of Chicago's social elite that lined the wall.

The two men waited at the bar. Mac took his cue from her father who ordered a glass of wine. They clanked glasses and then got quiet. Mac forced himself to stop tearing at the napkin. Instead, he looked up at his future father-in-law who was staring at him intently. "Claire surprised us," he said with a nod.

Mac hesitated in answering and then finally asked in reply, "Getting married this week, you mean?"

"Yes," her father nodded. Then, he shrugged. "What can I say? We were stunned." Mac tapped his chin with his fist but didn't argue. He had expected that. "We like you, Mac," Mr. Conrad said. "But, her mother and I have concerns."

"I bet you do," Mac acknowledged.

"Why the rush?" he asked bluntly. "Why not wait until after your deployment? Why can't Claire finish school first?"

Mac exhaled and shrugged. "I can't answer that logically," Mac said matter-of-factly. "I know that would be the right thing to do," he said with a nod. "But, we're looking at a six month deployment, and so we – "

"Six months from now, Claire's still a senior at Duke," he interrupted. Mac frowned. "A week ago, she wasn't getting married before finishing school. I see no reason why that's changed." Mac tilted his head and furrowed his brow. The whole world changed for him and Claire. How come her parents couldn't see it? "What if we say no?" her father asked quietly. "What if we tell Claire she can't do this? What if we cut off funding if she goes through with this?"

Mac leaned back in the bar chair and shook his head. "I hope you won't. Because I think that puts Claire in a really tough position." Mac added gently, though, "But, Mr. Conrad, I … I guess we never planned that you would keep paying for Claire's living expenses once we're married."

"You plan to pay for Duke?" he smirked. "Because last time I checked, my daughter doesn't have a job yet. And my guess is one year of tuition, room and board at that school is more than you take home."

"It is," Mac agreed. "And Claire already placed a call for financial aid." His voice held a hint of a challenge to Mr. Conrad. Financial blackmail felt like a low blow, and Claire's father was starting to irritate him. Mac tried to keep his temper in check as he knew this dinner was a divide-and-conquer approach to desperation. The parents were backed into a corner; they disagreed with the rushed wedding, and they had already tried - and lost - with Claire. Now, Mr. Conrad was appealing to logic and finances in an attempt to influence Mac.

"Listen," Mac said calmly. He placed his hands on the bar and said, "I love your daughter." Mr. Conrad looked away with a shake of his head. Mac waited and eventually he turned back and nodded reluctantly. "In another world, we would have waited, I would have asked you for permission, and I'd like to say that you'd be happy about this. I know this isn't what you expected, but I love Claire and we're doing this. And for her sake, I hope you're on board."

"I can see we've lost the argument," he said resignedly. He rubbed at his forehead and shook his head. Finally, he held his hands out in defeat. "Will you make her happy?"

"I'm planning to. That's all I want."

Mr. Conrad released a loud exhale. "My wife told me to leave this alone," he said suddenly. "She said you kids had already made up your mind and if we try to stop you, we'd only push you and Claire away." Mac swallowed but didn't reply. "I hope," he started quietly. "I hope I haven't done that by letting you know how we feel." Mac shook his head nearly imperceptively. "This just … It isn't how we thought this would go."

Mac smiled and then said sincerely, "I'm sorry about that. It's just … things changed for us and –"

"Claire says your father's not well," he interrupted.

"No." Mac shook his head. "No, he's really not."

"I can see that being another reason why you would want to get married quickly." Mac nodded, but didn't elaborate. After a moment, her father lifted his hands and said, "You have our blessing. We love our daughter. And we'd like to think she has good judgment." Mac smiled now. "Just …" Mr. Conrad squeezed his eyes shut and then he opened them and said emotionally, "Just stay safe over there. Because you're going to have a wife now and –"

"I intend to," Mac interrupted. "I'm coming home," he said.

* * *

In the end, all the pair needed was a church, a priest and each other. Twenty-seven of their relatives attended the hurried wedding with word-of-mouth being the form of invitation. Mac stood in the front wearing his Dress Blues while Claire's two brothers stood beside him in dark, pin-striped suits. Claire's mother, wearing a gold dress, was her Matron of Honor, the couple not caring that the number of attendants lacked symmetry.

Mac's parents had walked slowly up the aisle, his father wearing a suit that used to fit and refusing the oxygen that would help him breathe. He held his head high and escorted his wife, although Mac wasn't sure who supported whom. Still, they looked pleased and proud. Just before sitting, his father had stopped. Mac thought he needed a rest, but his father made eye contact with him. He nodded a few times at his son, a small smile on his lips.

Mac's posture was impeccable as he watched Claire walk up the aisle holding on to her father's arm. She wore a real wedding gown that she was somehow able to secure on one day's notice. Unadorned ivory silk fell from her curves, and her hair, pinned into an elaborate up-do, was covered by a floor-length veil that had been in her family for four generations. Mac bit his lip, not out of nerves, but to tell himself this was real. He was getting married, and this beautiful woman would be his wife.

He shook Claire's father's hand and extended his arm for her. She squeezed tightly with well-manicured fingers, and then she pulled him down so she could whisper in his ear. "Do not let go of me," she ordered. "There was no time to shorten this dress, so I'm wearing the highest heels I've ever owned." Mac chuckled at her words and she hissed, "It's not a joke. I don't want to fall."

"I got you," he assured her, reaching over with his other hand to squeeze hers. He nodded towards the front of the church where his cousin stood, waiting to marry them. Claire carefully stepped up the two steps towards the altar, holding Mac's arm with one hand and pushing her dress out of the way with the other. They shared a kneeler and Mac felt it moving beneath him. He looked sideways at Claire, concerned. "You good?" he asked under his breath, worried.

He saw her taking a deep breath, nerves suddenly catching up with her. She exhaled slowly, and then she nodded. "I'm good," she said confidently, reaching for his hand.

* * *

Claire sat sideways on Mac's lap, one arm around his shoulders, the other holding a glass of wine. The wedding dress puffed in the air and Mac kept pushing it down with his hand. A plate with a slice of a three-layer cake sat on the white tablecloth. It wasn't a banquet hall, but the reality was that any number of Chicago restaurants can fit in two dozen guests at the last minute. This one even managed a private room, and one of Mac's twenty-one cousins (roughly half of whom attended) had brought music.

Mac held a forkful of cake in the air, just out of Claire's reach. "You will die if you smear that on my face," she threatened. He shook his head, assuring her he wouldn't. Claire opened her mouth and Mac gently fed her the bite. She washed it down with the rest of her drink before declaring, "I need more wine." She whispered to Mac, "I just wanna get drunk and go home."

"Well, pace yourself," he teased, thinking she might already be buzzed. "We can't leave before the guests do."

"Why not?" she challenged. Mac nodded as the server approached them holding a bottle of wine. They watched him fill Claire's glass to the top and she took another sip. She wrapped both arms around his neck and whispered, "Don't you just want to get out of these clothes?" He laughed. She clarified, "Don't you want to see _me_ out of these clothes?"

"You're killing me," he whispered, his hands resting on her lower back, but gently rubbing against the ivory silk.

"Ten minutes," she said, kissing his neck. "No more."

Mac chuckled a little and then whispered, "Heads up. Here comes Billy."

"Excuse me," her father said. Claire extricated herself from Mac's arms and looked up. "I don't believe I've danced with the bride," he said, holding his hand out.

Mac smiled and nudged her. "Don't trip," he teased, setting her on her feet. She swayed a little, but Mac wasn't sure if it was the shoes or the wine. Either way, she glowed. Her makeup was still flawless except that her lipstick was now smeared on the glass in front of him. Her hair was still stacked on top of her head, a few reddish curls hanging loose and framing her face. She looked at Mac and extended all five fingers towards him, indicating that ten minutes was too long. She had shorted the window to five. Mac laughed as he eased back in his chair.

His father suddenly appeared to Mac's left and pulled a chair out. Mac swallowed as his father, looking tired, tried to sit down gracefully. "How are you feeling?" Mac asked.

"Did you have a good day?" his father asked in response.

Mac chuckled a little and nodded. "I got married, Dad. It was a pretty good day." His father scratched at his eyebrow but didn't respond.

They both looked at Claire dancing gracefully with her father. He was smiling too, and Mac was relieved. After a moment, his father commented, "She's a beautiful bride." Mac nodded with a smile on his face. "We like her," his father said simply. "How do her parents feel about this?"

"They're coming around," Mac said quietly. He leaned sideways and said, "Claire told her dad to look on the bright side. He just saved fifty grand by us doing it this way." Mac's father furrowed his brow, unsure if there was humor in the words. Claire winked at Mac and tapped at her wrist, gesturing that she was counting down the time.

Mac laughed a little and his father asked, "What's that about?"

"She wants to go," Mac said simply, his eyes not leaving her.

He stood up suddenly, adjusting his suit coat. The music was changing; her father's dance was over. "That might be your cue, son," his father said. Mac nodded, about to find his bride. "Don't keep her waiting." Still, Mac's father gripped his wrist just as Mac was leaving. He stopped and looked down at his father. "Congratulations," he said to his son. "This is a good day for all of us."


	12. Stepping Up

**A/N**: For some reason, my favorite chapter. Also, my last chapter. I'd like to keep writing this story, but I have nothing else done, so ... updates will probably get quite sporadic as real life is always busy. Hope you'll stick with it. Standard disclaimer: I don't own the characters.

* * *

**Stepping Up**

Claire held the small piece of plastic in her hand and rubbed her thumb over the name: CLAIRE C TAYLOR. When Mac had asked, she had considered for all of five seconds before saying "C" was the first initial of her middle name. "C" for "Conrad." Frances, her middle name from birth, seemed to have disappeared.

The credit card had been her first piece of mail as a married woman. The day before he deployed, Mac had made time to call Capital One, informing them he needed another card for his wife. During his last night on American soil, Mac forced the conversation away from the emotion and towards the mundane. "Your name is on the bank account," he reminded her. "Checks are in the mail," he informed. "I left the address the same, but all mail will be forwarded to you at Duke," he told her. "My pay checks are direct deposited to the bank. If you need money, use it. _Please_. It's your money too."

Claire spun her wedding band and engagement ring in a circle. In the last three months, she had not had to pay for anything, other than Mac's credit card bills containing charges made before their marriage. She had hastily scribbled out two checks using her new married name and dropped them in the mail. The next bills showed a zero balance.

Claire still felt largely the same as she did the day before she married Mac. She still lived in a dorm on campus, and she still went to school. Her parents, perhaps unwilling to fully trust the longevity of the hurried wedding, still paid for college. And Mac was still far away, although now he was located in the middle of a desert in a country she hadn't heard of before August.

But yesterday's quick call from the satellite phone had made her think about some things. "My mom says he's not doing well. Have you heard anything?" Mac asked. Of course not, Claire thought. Why would his parents contact her? Well, maybe because she was _married _to their son. Mac was deployed overseas. She was his wife. It was time to step it up.

So after hanging up, she called her mother-in-law, the woman whom she had known for precisely four days, and even that was pushing it when one considered the whirlwind of activity that was packed into that time. But Claire asked the questions Mac wanted to know: How is he? What are the doctors saying? What is the prognosis? In return, his mother asked the questions she wanted to know: How is he? Is he safe still? Can he come home if his father takes a turn for the worse? What about for a funeral? They each got answers, but there was no doubt that Mac's mother was stressed and overwhelmed. She was exhausted as a caregiver and worried about her son.

Claire handled the credit card once again. She had not made one charge. But this seemed like an appropriate inaugural expenditure. So, she picked up the phone and called United Airlines. She was going to Chicago.

* * *

Claire looked around Mac's childhood bedroom as she placed her suitcase on the wooden desk. "MLT" was scratched into the surface. Claire imagined a teenage Mac carving it with a Swiss Army knife. She was tempted to add her initials and circle them with a heart, but she guessed his parents would figure out the source. A deck of cards and an old cribbage board rest on the bedside table. She picked the board up and noticed it was scratched on the bottom. When she opened the lid holding the pegs, she found they were all there. A yellowed slip of paper was inside containing a cheat sheet for points. She recognized Mac's handwriting.

The twin bed was neatly made with crisp white sheets, a down comforter covered in gray muslin, and a gray and maroon scratchy-plaid blanket draped on the end. The ceiling slanted so the only place Claire could stand upright was in the middle of the room. There was just one other bedroom in the home – it was the same as this one, and Mac's parents shared it, or else they used to when McKenna Taylor could climb stairs.

Claire had seen it all the first time she had visited Chicago, but sudden wedding plans had limited Claire's time in the home. Claire herself had only spent one abbreviated night there before pursuing more important ventures like buying a wedding gown. The truth was she barely knew Mac's parents. Three months ago, it didn't matter; she was getting married, and everything was romantic.

But from this perspective – as a daughter-in-law without the son who made everything right – Claire saw the deep, working-class roots that her husband possessed. She was not quite a trust-fund baby, but she had grown up in an upper-middle class home. Her father earned six figures – maybe even low seven figures, Claire estimated. Her parents paid for anything she needed and most of what she wanted. She could have gone to any university without taking out a cent in loans. They were members at a country club. She had played tennis and lacrosse. She had gone to private school.

Yet, she didn't think she had been raised a snob either. Her parents took her to soup kitchens. As a high schooler, she had tutored first graders in the inner city. She had participated in service projects with her church, collecting blankets, working at homeless shelters. She liked to think she understood how people lived. But, as she looked around his bedroom and imagined Mac living here for eighteen years, she realized, for the first time, how lucky she had been.

The Taylor home was tiny and dated. The only full bathroom had not been touched since the seventies. The floors squeaked. There was a hole in the ceiling of the hallway, despite the new roof, and she _knew_ that would bother Mac. The steel mill around the corner made the neighborhood seem foggy. Of course it was November, and Chicago was gray in the winter, but somehow it felt worse. Still, the bedcovers looked warm and cozy, and the room was immaculate. The wood floors were buffed, the rug beside the bed was fluffy, and the windowsills were dust-free. Mac's parents had worked for this home, and they took pride in caring for it. She vowed to appreciate what she had, no matter what life brought her.

She stood in front of the mirror and applied some lip gloss. The mirror had no fingerprints. She shivered as a whistle of air blew. She reached into her suitcase for a sweatshirt and an extra pair of socks. Her shoes had been left at the front door at Mrs. Taylor's request. A bottle of hand lotion rest on the night stand so she helped herself and then she was ready. It was time.

* * *

Mrs. Taylor was working in the kitchen and Claire stopped in the doorway, holding four letters from Mac held together with a rubber band. She hadn't yet seen Mr. Taylor, who was sleeping, she had been informed, in the den behind closed doors. "Mrs. Taylor?" she asked quietly, not sure how else to address Millie Taylor. She took her cue from Mac; he called her parents Mr. and Mrs. Conrad. They hadn't yet corrected him. Certainly, his older, more formal parents would expect the same.

"Yes," Mac's mother said, turning around quickly. "Come in, Claire. Sit down. Are you hungry?" she asked. She pulled out a kitchen chair and gestured for her to sit. Claire sat down, setting the letters on the table, and Mac's mother immediately set a plate of cookies in front of her. "How about a glass of milk? Does that sound good?" she asked. "You were up so early for your flight. It probably throws your schedule off. I won't get dinner together until 1. I hope that's okay?"

"Sure," Claire replied, stopping the woman's ramble. She seemed nervous and Claire felt a twinge of sympathy for her. This was new for her too. "That's all fine," Claire reassured.

Claire reached out for a cookie and then she nodded her thanks at the glass of milk that his mother set in front of her. She sat across from Claire and cupped her hands around a mug of coffee and then said quietly, "It's so nice of you to come."

"Of course," Claire said. "I'm glad to be here."

The conversation halted for a moment and then Mac's mother said, "I wish we had gotten a chance to know you more before ..." Claire looked up and nodded subtly as his mother's voice trailed off. She had said too much, she had realized it and she had stopped. "Don't get me wrong," she hurried. "We're glad you and Mac are married. We just …" Claire looked away, embarrassed now. "Well," she said quietly. "This is a nice opportunity to talk with you," Millie said. Claire looked up and smiled with a nod. His mother sipped at her coffee and then said, "Have you heard from Mac?"

"Not since last week," Claire said. "He tries to call on Sundays, but it doesn't always work out. I told my roommate, if he calls, she should tell him to call over here." Mrs. Taylor nodded, pleased to hear that. "We'll see. I try not to plan on it because he can't always call." Claire chuckled a little and added, "But if he calls, it's usually around 1:30." Millie smiled at Claire's enthusiasm. "I get a lot of letters, though. Three this week, actually."

"Really," his mother said. "We don't get letters."

"He writes when he can," Claire said. She reached for the package of letters and unbanded them. Millie looked curious, her eyes – grayish hazel like Mac's – never leaving the envelopes. "Here," Claire said, opening one. She pulled out four pages of notebook paper, covered in Mac's scrawl in blue ink, both sides, every line used. Claire kept back the first two pages and then turned the third page over. She slid it across the table and said, "Here are some of his impressions of the Middle East." She tapped about halfway down the page. "He was in Riyadh for a little bit before they set up camp. I think he enjoyed that." Mac's mother nodded, and reached for her glasses to read.

Claire opened another letter and handed the whole thing to her. "I think he was homesick in this one. He complained a lot about sand." Claire laughed a little and then added, "I told him it was going to be sandy. It's not like he was heading for the swamp. He told me I was buying into stereotypes." She arched her eyebrows and said to Mrs. Taylor, "I don't know about you, but I told him sand in a desert is probably not a stereotype."

Millie laughed and started to read. Claire sat in silence and watched as the older woman tilted her head at some of Mac's words. She smiled once in a while. She bit her cheek on occasion, chewed on her lip, just like Mac did. Claire was selective in what she chose to share, holding back some of his most private words, but his mother was reading more than descriptive narration. He had shared his personal feelings and emotions with Claire, and Claire had allowed his mother to read some of it. After nearly ten minutes, Millie cleared her throat and handed the pages back to Claire. "I didn't realize he could write." Claire tilted her head in confusion. His mother explained, "I mean, he writes … well. I can see everything in my mind as he describes it."

Claire's eyes widened as she nodded enthusiastically. "He's a great writer," she asserted. Claire touched the letters gently, anxious to re-read some of Mac's words of endearment that he had written just for her. But she didn't want to share those, and she didn't want to be rude either. Millie's eyes followed Claire's fingers. At last, Claire said, "I have some more upstairs. He wrote this great description of his stop in Germany. They had some free time and went to Oktoberfest. You can hear the oompa-loompa bands in his letters. I'm not kidding."

Mac's mother laughed out loud before asking quietly, "How is he … approaching the deployment?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he positive? Excited?"

"Oh," Claire said with a shrug. "Mostly positive. Excited. I mean he likes traveling and seeing new places. And he believes in the mission. 100%." She hesitated before saying, "He talks about how half the guys had never been a hundred miles away from home until boot camp, and I guess he thinks they should be a little more … serious about what war is. He said everyone's cocky until bullets start flying." Millie nodded subtly. "But, he's proud of what he does, and he talks like he's fearless. He's got a whole group of guys who look to his every move, so he won't show anything other than bravery and dedication."

Millie smiled, relieved to hear that her son wasn't afraid. But Claire took a deep breath. She was an open book; she would share more. "But I'm gonna be honest with you … I think he's scared." Millie's eyes focused on Claire, and she nodded. "He wants to come home," Claire said, her voice breaking as she spoke. "He just wants to come home in one piece."

"Does he say that? Or is that you saying you miss him?" Millie pressed quietly, squeezing Claire's hand. Claire wiped a tear that was threatening in the corner of her left eye, embarrassed at the display of emotion.

"He doesn't say it," Claire said with a shake of his head. "And I don't say it to him either. It wouldn't do any good for him to hear that." Millie smiled and nodded. After a moment, Claire tapped her hand on the letters. "But he's scared. He writes about it."

* * *

Claire waited in the dining room, a steaming ham far too big for the group sat on a platter in the middle of the table. A coordinating bowl held homemade mashed potatoes with garlic. Claire had helped prepare them. A clear bowl with green beans and almonds and a plate with homemade biscuits rounded off the food. Their finest china was on the table, and Claire knew she was the occasion of the woman's efforts. She hadn't seen Mac's father yet. He had slept since her late morning arrival. Claire heard Mrs. Taylor speaking to him quietly. "Claire's here, McKenna. Why don't you come to the table."

"Claire's here?" he asked. "What time did she come? You should have woke me sooner." Claire smiled as she heard the shuffling in the room. "Has she talked to Mac?" he asked.

"Not today, but of course she talks to him," Millie said softly. "She says he calls almost every week," she informed.

Claire stood up as Mr. Taylor entered the dining room. He shuffled a bit, his balance was off. He was thinner than when they saw him in August, Claire noticed immediately. His eyes were still sharp, though. And he eyed Claire carefully as he approached the table. He gripped the chair and pulled it out, still insisting to do things himself, Claire noticed. "Hello Mr. Taylor," Claire said in greeting, holding her hand out to shake his. He nodded a bit, reached out and gripped her hand tightly.

"Welcome," he said formally. He didn't smile, but Claire thought his eyes sparkled a bit, the way Mac's did when he was pleased. "Please sit down," he said, gesturing towards the chairs. Millie and Claire sat, and once the women were seated, he sat down also. He led them in grace and then directed Claire to start with the food. The family was traditional and formal, which Claire had known, but it was completely unlike the more casual family environment in her home. She had two younger brothers so things were never this quiet, but it was more than that. Mac's father's presence was formidable, and he dominated the mood. Claire was starting to understand her husband's frustrations with the man.

"So," he began. "What does Mac have to say about the war efforts?"

Claire blinked. _The war efforts_. She thought about the phrase and debated what to say. She looked at the man, he was staring at her and awaiting an answer. Claire felt like it was a test. She swallowed and then began, "Mac says that things are organized, and they're getting ready for a ground attack. He expects an air strike first, and then the ground troops will move forward and push the Iraqis back." She was proud of her answer, and she hoped that satisfied the man.

"Does he think it's going to work?"

"He doesn't say," Claire replied. "He seems pretty confident that this isn't going to be that tough of a mission." Claire's father nodded again. After a beat, Claire added, "Mac's ready. He'll be fine."

"And you?" he asked. "What are your plans for the future?"

Claire blinked again. He unsettled her, in much the same way he unsettled Mac. His father was always stern, never pleased, Mac claimed. He was a good man, Mac was quick to add, and he never said anything inappropriate or cruel, but Mac always felt his father was dissatisfied and wanted more. Claire had told Mac not to be bothered by it. He couldn't control his dad's feelings. He should do his best and be satisfied with that. Claire needed to take her own advice.

"Claire?" he repeated sternly. "Your plans?"

"Well, I'll graduate this spring. And I'm looking at getting an MBA. I'm getting my applications ready." He nodded. "My GMAT was not as high as I wanted," she admitted. She shrugged. "Right now I feel like I need to figure out when Mac is getting home, and go from there." After a moment, she added, "I'm pretty sure I'll get into the Business School at Duke. The biggest challenge is Duke isn't very close to Camp Lejeune, so …." Her voice trailed off.

"Do you want to go to Duke?" he asked.

Claire smiled faintly. "Honestly? Not really. I'd rather go to Columbia or NYU. Or even Chicago. But who knows if I'll even get in... I'd _love _to go toNew York. And my family's there." He nodded, furrowed his brow in concern at Claire's words. "But obviously, Mac and I have to sort it all out, and it's hard to do when he's over there." Mac's father furrowed his brow and then nodded slowly. "He's talked about retiring, you know," Claire finally added, unsure if Mac had mentioned it before. His father looked surprised. "He started applying to the NYPD and CPD, but the deployment kind of messed with the process."

Mac's father looked surprised and was about to ask more when the telephone rang. Her eyes lit up. She glanced at her watch and said, "I bet it's Mac."

Millie jumped up and answered the phone. She nodded in excitement as she spoke slowly and loudly. "Yes, Mac. She's here," she said. "Everyone's fine," his mother said. "No, no. We're all fine. Let me get her."

* * *

Claire picked up the telephone and moved around the corner, still well within earshot of Mac's parents but out of their sightline. "Helllooooo," Claire cooed into the telephone.

"Why are you at my parents'?" Mac asked immediately. His voice was, understandably, full of concern. Still, Claire told herself to keep it light.

"It's Thanksgiving week, Mac," she replied. "I'm on break."

"And you had nowhere else to go? You had to go to Chicago?"

"Well last week you had questions that I couldn't answer. So I thought I needed to check it out for myself."

She heard the laugh from five thousand miles away and she could have sworn he was beside her. He asked rhetorically, "Did anyone ever tell you you're an overachiever?"

"Only you," she smiled. She heard a small laugh, but the line crackled, reminding her of how far away he was. It wasn't enough; she needed him so bad it hurt. After a moment, she whispered, "God, I miss you, babe."

"I'm good," he replied confidently, ignoring her emotion. They had done this for three months now, and it did no good to linger on their feelings. They had only minutes to speak, and they had business to discuss. The emotions would have to wait. "Everything's fine here," he assured her. She nodded, unable to speak. She took a deep breath, trying to get herself under control. Mac was the one deployed and preparing for war. She needed to be strong. "But I miss you too," he added softly.

Claire closed her eyes and a tear trickled out of the corner of her eye. She wiped it quickly and released a shaky breath and ordered herself to be calm. She swallowed and then she asked, in a clear and convincing voice, "So what are you doing over there?"

"It's classified," he teased.

"Seriously," she grinned, anxious to stay on another topic. "What do you do all day? Your dad wants to know how the war efforts are going."

"The what?" Mac asked.

"The war efforts," Claire repeated.

He exhaled and muttered under his breath, "Christ." Claire laughed now, finding his reaction funny. "Does he know there is not a war yet?"

"I believe so."

"Can he hear you?"

"Probably," Claire said brightly.

"Ma'am, tell him that the efforts are underway and that we will be ready when we get our orders, ma'am." His voice was stilted and formal, and he was teasing her. Claire chuckled a little. He added seriously, "Just tell him we'll be ready. That's all he wants to hear."

She leaned around the corner and announced, "Mac says they'll be ready when they get their orders." His father lifted a thumb. She spoke back into the telephone, "You got a big thumbs up for that."

"Well that's a relief. I was worried," he deadpanned. After a moment, he asked, "Claire?" She waited. "How _are _things?" He paused and asked, "Are things okay?"

"Better than I thought," she replied honestly. She whispered so his parents wouldn't hear. "I think your mom was reeling about the admission to hospice last week."

"What?" Mac asked. "You cut out. Did you say hospice or hospital?"

"Hospice," she repeated loudly, aware that Mac's parents could hear every word. "They stopped the chemo and the radiation," she explained.

Mac didn't say anything for a moment, and Claire sat in silence. Then he asked, "Why'd they stop the treatment? Isn't there anything else they can try?"

"Oh honey," Claire said softly. His question was more than curiosity; it was denial. He didn't want to believe his father was nearing the end. "It's not helping anymore, and there's nothing left to try. Just let him … He's done, Mac. He's done fighting. Now he just wants to be comfortable." She could only imagine Mac's face, and she hated to tell him, but she had always vowed to be honest. She could only assume he was overwhelmed. "So," she said quietly. "He's doing fine right now. The hospice nurse comes every day and checks on him. He … he doesn't breathe great. And he spends a lot of time in bed. But his pain is manageable. And right now, he's sitting at the table just like he did the day we were married." He exhaled and Claire could sense his anxiety and feeling of powerlessness as he sat in a desert on the other side of the world. "Listen to me, Mac. I'm here, okay? And if your parents need anything, I'll take care of it. It's a two hour flight and I can be here in an instant. You don't need to worry about this."

"Claire," he sighed. He was still worried.

"Babe, I'm going to help your mom get things organized tomorrow," she hurried to reassure. Mac didn't speak. "You don't believe me?" He still didn't answer. "For instance, she mentioned she was worried about snow removal. So I was –"

"Did you ask the neighbor?" Mac interrupted. "He can do it."

"I think you need to worry about your little war, Marine," Claire replied. He snorted, finally laughing a little. "You haven't been here in a while, but in the past ten years? Your neighbor got old," Claire asserted. "He can't do it. So … I solved the problem."

"How?" Mac asked skeptically.

"I did what my dad does: I found a _guy _who shovels snow."

"They've never hired anyone to do anything. They won't spend their money on that."

"I know. So I said that _you _said they should hire someone." Mac laughed. "I also said that _you_ said we'd pay for it. So, by the way, that's what we're doing. I'm just going to leave her some money from our account so she can pay the guy."

"Oh Claire," Mac whispered. "What would I do without you?"

"I have no idea," she said. "But you need me," she teased.

"I do," he said, and Claire could hear the emotion in his voice.

"Hey, hey," she said quietly. "Mac." He didn't reply and Claire realized he might be tearing up on the other side of the line. "Listen to me, babe. It's okay. Everything's okay here," she reassured. He was silent for a moment, and Claire wondered if the line had been disconnected. "Mac? Are you there?"

"Yep," he said. "I'm here." He sighed and then Claire heard the cracking in his voice as he spoke, "I don't think you know how much I appreciate what you're doing."

"Oh stop it," Claire said. "You're a big, bad, tough Marine and the last thing you need is to be a whimpering, sentimental mess. I'm your wife. You'd do the same for me." He didn't say anything, and Claire needed to lighten the mood. "Hey, you," she said. "Before you go, I have a question. Can I send you some beach toys?"

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"For the sand. You were complaining about the sand in your last letter. I thought you might like some toys to build a sandcastle or something."

"You know what, Claire?" he said in annoyance. The sand still irritated him, Claire was amused to realize. "I have sand in my shoes, in my hair, under my fingernails." Claire laughed out loud. "I hate it," he whined.

* * *

"Okay," Claire said quietly to Mac's father, leaning over to reach for his hand of cards. "Let me show you. See?" she said, grabbing the Queen and the Five and leaving him with the rest. She slid Mac's ancient cheat-sheet over to him and explained, "You don't get points for every card you lay. Just when you get certain combinations. Like 15. So don't lead with this five, because I have a bunch of cards that I can lay that are worth ten. And that adds up to 15 and gives me points. Make sense?"

He nodded, handing her the rest of his cards to shuffle into the deck. He picked up the slip of paper and nodded as he read it. He put it down when he began coughing, but Claire ignored it. Instead, she dealt out two hands of cards and waited until his breathing was under control. He inspected his cards before asking, "Do you play this game with my son?"

"He taught me," Claire said, arranging her cards. His father arched his eyebrows. "And it really pisses him off when I beat him." She quickly placed a hand over her mouth, embarrassed at the cuss word that flew out of her mouth.

He winked, laid a three down, said, "Three," and nodded towards her.

She placed another three on the pile, announced "Six," pegged two on the cribbage board for the pair and waited.

He laid a third three on the pile. Claire frowned as he announced, "Nine." He pegged six on the cribbage board and smiled smugly.

"You are just like Mac," Claire muttered under her breath. "_Very _competitive."

"I just like to win," he replied, his eyes sparkling.

* * *

May lay on his back on the cot, his left leg bent and his ankle crossed over it. The envelope was addressed in his mother's script. He ran his index finger under the seal of the envelope, and he pulled out three snapshots. He chuckled softly as he examined them.

In the first, his wife was playing cribbage with his father. Neither was looking at the camera, each was fully immersed in the cards in their hands, his old wooden cribbage board between them. In all his years, Mac could not recall a single time when he had played a board or card game with his father. He had played Crazy Eights and Old Maid and, later, Rummy with his mother, but his father had never joined. But, somehow, Claire had cracked the nut and persuaded the old man to play cards with her. It baffled him.

The second snapshot was one of Claire with his mother. Claire was staring intently at some type of batter that was being mixed in one of his mother's old Pyrex bowls. His mother was holding a gallon of milk at arms' length, reading something on the label. He could picture the activity. That didn't faze him. But what _did_ surprise him was that the picture had to have been taken by his father. He was completely smitten by his wife; that much was evident to Mac.

The third snapshot was a posed picture of Claire beside his father on the sofa. His father was thin, remarkably thin, Mac noted, but he sat straight, his forearm resting on the arm of the sofa. Claire was turned sideways towards him, one leg bent beneath her, one arm resting on the back of the sofa. Her face, though, was turned towards the camera and she was smiling. It was a flattering likeness of his wife and he was glad to have the shot. But his father too was smiling, and that startled Mac. His eyes, usually cold and stern, were warm and vibrant. Claire's visit had energized his father.

A piece of paper was inside. The messy handwriting on a half-slip of notebook paper held the only written words Mac had ever received from his father. Spelling errors and all, Mac knew he'd keep it forever.

_Mac, you might like these pics. Cribage is a good game, but I'm loosing too often. Am watching the latest on TV – sounds like your ready.  
You have our support. The visit with Claire has been nice. I'm proud of you. Love, Dad_


	13. Time

**A/N: **I was glad to get some alone time this week and had some fun writing. A little disclaimer on the deployment stuff. The Gulf War is the first war that I remember and the first one where I knew people deployed. This chapter was mostly based on imperfect memories and a little bit of Google so let's all remember it's fiction! :-) Thanks for your support ...

* * *

**Time**

Mac spun his ring around his left finger and closed his eyes briefly as he sat on an empty wooden crate just outside of the tent village that the Marines used for temporary housing. He craved just two minutes to himself. Only two minutes. Was that too much to ask? He tapped the package that looked like a deck of cards and pulled out a cigarette, a truly unhealthy habit that he thought he had kicked. He bent over to shield it from the wind and flicked his lighter twice before the cigarette caught. The allure of nicotine and its ability to calm the chaos inside had proven to be too tempting when faced with imminent war.

The tension at camp was palpable. Coalition air strikes were entering week two and were hailed as successful. The enemy was weakened, and the orders to move in to liberate the country would come any day. Still, they could not underestimate the Iraqis. The Marines prepared for gun battles and minefields and air strikes, and the stress never really left any of them. This was real, and adrenaline had proven to be a necessary drug to get through it.

He breathed in slowly and felt the nicotine as the smoke coated his lungs. Claire wouldn't like it, but he also thought he knew his wife well enough that she would cut him a break. He almost laughed at the absurdity; his father was dying of lung cancer, yet Mac was smoking. He shrugged inwardly. He'd quit when he got home. When this was all over.

Time moved differently on deployment. He had been here nearly five months, in some ways a lifetime. Civilian life seemed far away and impossibly dull. Shop for groceries? Watch a movie? Don't you know that people are dying for those rights? When he looked around at the flat, barren desert that had become uncomfortably familiar, it was hard to imagine being home again. Still, the deployment really wouldn't be that long in the context of an entire lifetime, and God willing, the desert would be behind him and he would be gassing up his vehicle in about six weeks.

He wondered, when he was old and gray and thought back on his twenties, would he remember the weeks he spent in Beirut, Latin America, the South Pacific, the Middle East? Or would he think of the years in North Carolina, the visits to Duke and the time with Claire?

Some days, Claire was all he thought about. Her face was in his eyes when he woke, her voice rang in his ears while he ate lunch, her laugh echoed in his mind when he read the mail, her touch lingered on his skin when he tried to sleep. He missed her so much it ached inside, yet it wasn't lost on him that their entire relationship, from the first floundering conversation to the last night on American soil, had been long-distance. He had married the woman without ever having lived within two hundred miles of her. He should be able to handle a deployment. Still, maybe it was the prospect of bullets flying over his head or the SCUD missile attacks that hit just a little too close or the minefields that lay just beyond that barbed-wire fence. Whatever it was, he wanted her all the time.

It was practically treasonous to be thinking of retirement while facing imminent orders of war. But he allowed himself the occasional thought. This was hard on Claire, and it was hard on him, and he didn't have to do it again. For a time, being a Marine had been his life's calling. He had been good at it, and he would be forever proud of his service to his country. But life changed, and Claire mattered too. During the many sleepless nights, he found himself imagining a different life. Maybe one where he and his wife could lay in bed and share a bottle of wine while two kids – always a boy and a girl – slept like angels in the bedrooms down the hall. That life could be theirs. He wanted it.

It was complicated though, and it was difficult to make decisions jointly when they occupied opposite sides of the planet. Mac had believed Chicago might be on the horizon. His father would pass soon, most likely before he got home. He knew that. His mother would be alone, and he and Claire had discussed via letters settling there – _if _he were to retire. Claire liked University of Chicago, so there was something there for her too.

And then Claire's most recent letter changed it all. He could hear the disappointment as he read. She had _not_ been accepted to the university. Her GMAT was lower than she had expected. Perhaps she had been distracted by a hasty wedding and a husband deployed, he thought. They could still do Chicago, she had assured happily, but she might need to work instead. They shouldn't change everything just because she didn't get in. _And, you're still thinking of retiring, right?_

Still, it did change everything. Despite her words, Mac didn't think that bringing Claire to Chicago to live by his mother just so she could work held much appeal for her. So he had taken two minutes of their last phone call to ask what she really wanted. She had fumbled over her words, but Mac thought she wanted to go home. She had said New York at least three times. Before the conversation was over, he had asked her if she could place a call to the NYPD on his behalf. Maybe a little nudge reminding them that he might be interested would help.

He looked down at the cigarette. It was small now, but the orange flicker would still give him one last drag. Mac looked up as he sensed a young Marine approaching him. No doubt Mac was needed. Mac turned away, stealing ten more seconds. "Excuse me, Captain Taylor?" the young Lance Corporal said from a respectful distance. Mac nodded at the subordinate as he inhaled deeply on the cigarette. Time was up.

* * *

Claire sat at her desk and tried to focus on the words on the page. It was hard to do. Elise was standing in front of the mirror switching between her curling iron and her flat iron. Periodically, she'd tease her blonde roots with a comb and add some aerosol hair spray for good measure. She had positively _come undone_ when Claire had showed up for her senior year with not only an engagement ring but also a wedding band. Throw in a deployment to the Middle East and Elise was far too enthusiastic about how _romantic _the whole thing was.

And really, Claire thought dryly, how could her life get any more romantic? Elise was about to go out on date number three with a handsome fraternity boy from Virginia. Claire wore an old USMC sweatshirt that still smelled like Mac and tried to think about microeconomics.

Elise did her part, though, to keep Claire's spirits up. She placed tiny American flags in the potting soil for her plants and taped an "I SUPPORT THE TROOPS" sign to the outside of their door. Claire ignored the American flags (who sees them in plants anyway?) and refrained from asking Elise how, precisely, she supports the troops other than posting stupid signs. The most humorous act, however, was the bumper sticker that she pinned to Claire's bulletin board. It said five words: MY HUSBAND IS A SOLDIER. Claire left it on the bulletin board as a constant reminder of how eager Elise could be, notwithstanding that referring to a Marine as a "Soldier" was a true, grievous insult.

First semester had not been easy. She had focus issues and procrastinated with her studies. She bombed the GMATs. She didn't sleep well. Instead, she watched CNN at night, soaked up newspapers during the day, spent hours in the library reading about the Middle East. She wanted to understand Mac's experience, but found that fifteen minutes a month on the phone was hardly sufficient. His letters helped, mostly because she could reread them. They soothed her and reassured her that he was fine. She could hear Mac's voice as she read, and it helped her wait until the next call.

They were narrative. Despite hating the desert, Mac found things to appreciate. His latest description of the beauty of the Middle Eastern skies had left Claire speechless as she imagined the contrast of silver stars on a canvas of midnight blue. _It looks like a holiday card, Claire, but better. I tried to take a picture but I'll probably have to remember this in my mind. I wish you could see this. I'm no artist, but maybe I can draw it. Does this help?_

They were partly business: _I hate to bother you with this, but, if you get a chance, could you get the papers from the DMV so I can change the title to the car? I meant to add you as an owner, but I ran out of time. _

They encouraged her: _Don't worry about the GMATs. You have a lot on your mind right now, and I guess I shoulder some of the blame for that. I know you're smart. Some day (soon, I hope?) you'll remember that too. _

Claire could have passed months reading and re-reading those letters. Those words would have been enough. But, they were newlyweds and they were spending their first magical moments of marriage separated by a world. Mac, always more articulate in writing, worried that it wasn't fair to Claire. He made sure she knew how he felt:

_The night is the hardest. It gets quiet here, and everyone is thinking about someone. I think about you all the time, but when it's dark, I remember the strangest things. Did you know you have tiny dimples above your knees? Or that you have freckles on the back of your neck? Have I ever told you that when I rest my hand on your hip, I can feel that tiny dragon tattoo under my thumb? I bet you didn't know that when you laugh, you crinkle your nose. And how can it be that when you first open your eyes in the morning, they look green instead of blue? I suppose when you were young, you never imagined your husband leaving you eight days after you got married. I'm sorry about that, but I promise you this: I'm not leaving you again._

* * *

Time passed too slowly for Claire. Important occasions occurred without the most important person in her life. She spent Thanksgiving with his parents, and his absence was palpable. Christmas Eve without a phone call nearly broke her heart. A week later, a thirty-second call wishing her Happy New Year was too short to satisfy. Her 22nd birthday passed without acknowledgement, although a Hallmark card (secured how? she wondered) did arrive eleven days late.

The Coalition air strikes that began in January made her newly impatient for the end. It was going to happen, she had accepted that. Now it was time to get it over with. And then, an American POW with bruised eyes was forced to lie about his country on television. She hated to think about it, but she wondered. Would Mac bow under torture too? She had heard him say once that everyone breaks eventually. Of course, he was commenting on a criminal confession being reported on television. He wasn't thinking about being on the receiving side of physical torture. Or was he?

She waited with bated breath for the calls. Sometimes when he called, she could hardly hear him. Often, he didn't have time to say much more than _I love you. Things are fine here._ Sometimes, he seemed to have endless time on his hands, and that's when he asked questions. _How's my dad doing? What do you hear over there? How are you? Really, how are you?_ Claire vowed to stay upbeat, but she wasn't going to lie either. He already sensed his mother sugar-coated things; he wouldn't tolerate it from his wife. So she broke hard news about his father – it's just a matter of weeks now – and promised that she would help his mother if the inevitable happened before he was home.

Claire hoped she was doing everything he needed and some of what he wanted. It was hard, _really _hard, but she thought she was strong and confident. Still, nothing prepared her for the Ground War. Mac was an infantry Marine and so, when February 24th came, she knew he was the among the U.S.-led Coalition forces that pushed into Kuwait and Iraq.

She first heard the news after grabbing a bite to eat in the Student Union. GROUND ASSAULT BEGINS, CNN reported. _Mac. Oh my god, Mac._ The guys to her left were fist pumping the air. "Hoo-ah!" they shouted. "Send that bastard home!" they announced. A dignified professor-type to her right muttered under his breath, "Anything for oil. I guarantee you, we wouldn't be there if this was Africa." A dozen students stood with tape over their mouths and held PEACE signs as if the Gulf War was the equivalent of the Vietnam War. Claire didn't understand the tape other than they must be saying their voices weren't heard. Whatever. It was trendy to be political. Or maybe apolitical. She saw a few students glance up at the TV in disinterest. It was the other side of the world. It didn't affect them.

Politics aside, it affected her. The love of her life was one of those Marines on TV wearing camo gear, holding a weapon, carrying a gas mask. Holy Mother of God - that was a gas mask. _Mac. _Her stomach was tied in knots. She thought she was going to vomit. Her hands shook. Her jaw clenched. She couldn't breathe. She had to sit down. She took slow breaths – in and out. In and out. "Are you okay?" a stranger asked.

She closed her eyes a moment and then nodded. She opened them and looked at the man, his head tilted in concern. "Yeah, I'm fine." She took another deep breath and said, "I just need some time."

* * *

"Marine!" Mac shouted. "Keep that helmet on!" he ordered, reaching under the truck to retrieve it just before it was run over by the back tires.

"Sorry, Captain Taylor," the young man who was seated on the bed of the truck replied. He accepted the helmet from a jogging Mac and explained, "I was getting a little hot so I took it off. It fell off the truck when we started moving, sir."

"Keep it on, Marine," Mac ordered in a quieter, yet authoritative voice. "You don't want to lose it."

"Yes, sir," he replied, properly chagrined. Mac watched the young man fasten the strap beneath his chin. Satisfied, Mac tightened his own, his gloves interfering with his fine motor skills. Still, he was a Captain and his guys looked up to him so he wore every part of the Marine-issued uniform, heat and desert notwithstanding. He glanced backwards at the base camp, now largely empty with the exception of high level administrative officers. They wouldn't return until their mission was accomplished. He had high hopes they would be done within two weeks. Privately, officials were saying the Iraqis were weak, completely outmanned and out-trained. It might take only days. Mac wouldn't listen to that; it was never good to be over-confident.

The sand covered his boots as he walked. Sometimes he jogged, but the sand made that tough, and he felt it in his legs. The desert sun beat down on his face. He tried to remember the sunscreen, but the sand was everywhere. Last time he rubbed it on his face, he felt like he was massaging sandpaper across it. He was left with red cheeks either way. His sunglasses smeared from the sweat that dripped off his forehead. That wasn't good either. He was on his third pair. He knew the supply clerk wasn't thrilled, but Mac constantly took them off when shooting, leaving them behind.

Only half his guys wore face paint. Mac had gone toe-to-toe with his superior officer on that one. There was no need for it in the desert. They didn't blend in with the surroundings anyway. This wasn't guerila warfare in the jungle. They were already targets just by virtue of standing in the desert. All the paint did was provide another way for sand to stick to them. Once in a while, though, Mac rubbed a little black under his eyes. It seemed to cut the glare, and that helped.

When he tired, he would ride in the truck. His men always made room for him, and he probably deserved the ride more than the rest, if one cared about ranks. But everyone handled their edginess in their own way. Mac liked to keep moving and keep his mind on the end mission. Some of the younger men liked to joke about it. The lighthearted banter wasn't the point. It was the camaraderie in the back of the truck that mattered, and so Mac had learned to let it go.

He wasn't a Major yet, but he was commanding a group of men. His superior officers had given him tasks that fit a Major's responsibilities, so Mac knew the promotion was forthcoming. As soon as this war was over, he expected to be notified. Still, retirement plans were firming up in his mind, and that job in New York sounded compelling. He had written to Claire about it who didn't understand the position. He hadn't done a good job describing it, he supposed, and to be fair to her, it _had_ come out of nowhere. It was a new initiative. The NYPD wanted skilled detective investigators who understood science, and Mac – a veteran even! – fit the bill. Claire's scathing remark in her latest letter made him smile: _Since when do you want to sit in a lab all day? Your ass is not made for sitting, Marine. Think carefully. I don't want you taking a job you hate._ God, he loved her.

The shout from the front of the caravan brought him back to reality. "Mine!" someone shouted, and those tasked with deactivating said mine hopped fearlessly off the truck. Mac rubbed at his face; he wouldn't take that job in a million years. _Damn it_, he thought in irritation, as he realized he had just transferred dust from his gloved hands onto his face. It was falling in his eyes again. He had a moment while they waited, so he set his backpack down. He took his gloves off, pushed the gas mask aside, and reached for the baby wipes that his wife had mailed him. He opened the package and ran one across his dirty face.

He was cleaning his hands, rubbing the cloth between them and forming a small ball with it when, in an instant, all hell was raining down. Mac was on the ground, his ears were ringing, bright light was flashing in his eyes, and heat was blowing in his face. He saw flames, and his first thought was the mine. Then sound came back, and he heard the squealing noise of a rocket-propelled grenade whizzing over his head.

He heard _Goddamn it! _and _Fuck! _and variables of cuss words that he had never known. They were under attack. He was on his feet, swinging his rifle over his shoulder and ordering the gunnery sergeants to get moving! It's time! He was simultaneously firing his weapon and seeking cover, his gloves long forgotten. They were Marines, though, and well-trained for this moment. Before Mac could finish with his orders, his men were fighting back with all the power they possessed. "Light it up!" Mac shouted towards the Tank Commander. Two thumbs up and the order was relayed further. The powerful boom shook his eardrums and the resulting smoke showed utter destruction. They would rue the day they messed with the United States Marine Corps.

It was time, Mac thought, and he took aim and fired. Time to get the job done.


	14. Full Circle

**Full Circle**

Claire stood in the International Terminal of O'Hare Airport where passengers arrived from overseas destinations. It was the end of April, and Mac had been deployed seven months. She had been with his parents for five days, having received an emergency call that his father was on the verge of death. Soon after her arrival in Chicago, Mac had called. His orders were up, and he was on his way home. That news seemed to give McKenna Taylor a new lease on life. He would live to see his son another day. Claire doubted it at the time, but here they were. Mac was arriving in Chicago, and his father was still alive.

She chewed on her thumbnail and wondered what it would feel like to see him again. She had taken care to do her hair and put on some makeup, and she was casually dressed up for the occasion. She wore a low heel with her jeans and an oversized sweater that was trendy. Would he look the same as when they said goodbye? She guessed he would. Save for a few lines on his face, he hadn't changed at all in the time she had known him. She watched person after person push through the double doors. Homecomings and reunions, hugs and kisses were happening all around her, and still she waited. She was impatient. The flight had landed nearly an hour ago. She knew he would be processed through Customs, but come on, Claire thought. Don't you think they could expedite that for a man who had put his life on his line for his country?

And then she saw him. He looked different. He had filled out and lost weight all at the same time, if that was even possible. He looked solid and fit. Every ounce was muscle. His face was tanned. Spots of his cheeks were ruddy from the sun. He stood tall and proud, his Marine uniform setting him apart from the rest of the public. His hair had been recently trimmed, and the medals – some of them new – shone on his chest. As he walked, he commanded attention. People turned. A stranger shook his hand. Young boys giggled.

She was in the middle of the crowd and lost sight of him for a moment, and she wasn't certain he had seen her. When she saw him next, he was walking parallel to her. His eyes were scanning the crowd, and she knew he didn't know where to look. He was close enough, so she called, "Mac!" He stopped, searching for the source of the voice.

He turned towards her, and Claire waved. She felt almost shy as they made eye contact. "Excuse me," she heard him say as he began to cross towards her. A ribbon barricade was leading all incoming passengers to a single exit. Instead of following the crowd, Mac ducked beneath the barricade, daring the Chicago Police Department to stop him. People cleared a path for the determined Marine.

He reached her, and Claire tilted her head. "Hey," she said, a faint smile on her lips. "Welcome home," she said and reached for his left hand. He dropped his bag on the floor and, like a man on a mission, he wrapped his other arm around her back and pulled her impossibly close. She stood on her tiptoes and started to wrap her hands around his neck. Then, she couldn't help herself. She jumped. His strong arms had no problems keeping her off the ground, and she clung to him.

She whispered into his neck. "Oh my god, you're here." She refused to let go. "You're here. I can't believe you're here."

"I'm here," he replied quietly. "And I'm not leaving you again. Not ever."

* * *

"When did my parents get a new car?" Mac asked, as Claire unlocked the back of the Honda Civic Hatchback.

"Four days ago," she replied casually. Mac scratched an eyebrow, dropping his bags inside. Surely his father was not sitting in a used car lot in the last days of his life. "Their car was …" She shook her head. "It was making a strange noise, and I took it in, and they started talking about four thousand dollars in repairs. New brakes. Something wrong with the exhaust system. The fuel line. I mean, come on," she said. Mac narrowed his eyes, picturing his 22 year old wife taking a car to the gritty repair shop down the street. "I told them to junk it." Mac's jaw dropped. "It was a piece of shit vehicle, Mac," she lightly defended. "It was eleven years old, and no one should be putting four grand into a car like that. So, your mom and I went over to that place on … I don't know."

"127th street?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. Probably," she said. "And we test drove a few and picked one out." Mac ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. "You like it?" she asked, proud as she hopped into the driver's seat.

He eased himself into the passenger side seat and nodded. "It looks fine. It's in good shape actually." Claire nodded, her eyebrows raised in excitement. "How's it drive?" he asked.

"It's great. Your mom loves it." She paused before saying, "It's two years old but it only has fourteen thousand miles. So that's pretty good, I thought. Should last her a while."

"What does my dad about think about it?" he asked.

"Oh we didn't tell him," Claire said quickly, shaking her head. Mac arched his eyebrows and turned his head towards her. His jaw dropped at the conspiracy his mother and wife had hatched. She scowled, "He would … Well, you know how he is." _Indeed._ "Your mom thought he'd want her to get the old one fixed and …" She grimaced a little as she admitted in a whisper, "And we didn't buy American. Don't kill us." Mac laughed a little. Satisfied he wasn't angry, Claire continued, "Your mom needs a reliable car. So that's what we got her."

"I hope you didn't pay full price," Mac said sideways.

"God no," Claire replied. She was insulted that he thought that. "The guy starts with this nonsense about putting numbers on paper and wanting me to slide it over upside down so he could talk with his manager." Mac smiled a little. "And I said 'no way.'" She shook her finger in the air. "I don't negotiate against myself. If he wants our business, he gives us a fair price and stops with the games." Mac chuckled. She shrugged. "I got him to take ten percent off, so we were happy about that."

"It seems like a good car," Mac nodded. They were quiet for a few moments and then he pulled at his lip. He asked, "How is he?"

"Well," Claire replied after a beat. "Today was a good day. Two days ago, though, I thought …" She bit her lip and said, "I thought it was the end. He didn't speak at all. Just lay there in bed. And the breathing thing… Oh, Mac, it's awful." He gave an imperceptible nod. Claire sighed. "But today, it's like … he realized you were coming home, and he perked up. Your mom propped the pillows up, and he even sat up for a while. So it was better." She reached out and squeezed his hand. "Just … be prepared, Mac, because he's … he's dying." Mac squeezed his eyes shut a moment and then opened them to look out the window. The highway flashed by at seventy miles an hour and Claire rest her hand on his leg. "I'm glad you get to see him again," she finally said.

* * *

Mac entered the bedroom and looked at Claire laying on the double bed. She turned sideways to face him. Her nightgown gaped open at the chest, but she didn't fix it. Mac guessed she knew. Claire's denim jacket was resting on the back of a wooden folding chair. Mac rest his Marine coat on top. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt first, his eyes never leaving hers. He moved his hand to his tie. Still on the bed but moving to her knees, she flagged him closer. "Let me do that." He didn't need her to do it, but he stepped towards her, eager for her touch.

He swallowed as her hand first rest on his neck, her fingertips caressing it gently. She loosened his tie and pulled the knot free. It slid out from under his collar with a quiet hiss and she draped it on top of his coat. Then, she pulled the shirt out of his pants and unbuttoned it one by one. She pulled it off his shoulders, leaving him in an undershirt. She set it gently on the pile of clothes. She bit her lip and reached for his forearm. A yellow-tinged oval bruise was on top. "What's that from?" she asked, her fingertip tracing it gently.

"I don't know," he said. "We were packing up last week," he said. "Could be anything."

He sat on the edge of the bed and Claire pressed her body against him from behind. He exhaled, closing his eyes as she tucked one arm under his and wrapped the other one over a shoulder. She grasped her hands in front of him and held on, resting her chin on his other shoulder. "Could you talk to your dad?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away and then he nodded. "A little bit. Yeah." He bit his lip and then said, "I don't see him hanging on much more than a day or two." She shook her head in agreement. "He thinks we should go to New York," Mac said after a beat.

"What do you think?"

"I like that job," he said with a nod. He hesitated, though, still chewing his bottom lip. Then he reached for her arm and smiled sideways. "I really don't know anything about being a cop, though," he admitted. She laughed quietly.

He exhaled into her touch and was about to ask if she thought he should take it when she whispered, "Tell me about it."

"About what?" he asked.

"What it was like over there," she said.

"I told you most of it already," he said. "I wrote good letters," he smiled.

"Tell me the rest," she said, not to be dissuaded.

He turned his head from side to side, ostensibly stretching out the kinks. He reached for her hand and she released hers so she could link her fingers with his. He squeezed and then he said quietly, "I don't … I don't want to."

Claire turned her head and pressed her lips against his neck. Then she whispered, "Tonight? Or ever?"

He shrugged, replying, "I don't know. For now." He hesitated before asking quietly, "Is that okay with you?"

She shrugged in return. "For now." He nodded and squeezed again. "Have you ever missed anyone so much you ached inside?" she whispered after a beat.

"Yeah," he replied, turning on the bed. "I have," he said. He adjusted her so they were face to face and he ran his hand through her hair. "I missed this," he said. "Your hair," he explained, running both hands through it now little by little. "It got so long," he said. "And it's straight now," he commented.

"I blew it out today. For the occasion." She laughed quietly and Mac used his thumb to rub at her cheek.

"You look …" He paused and said, "Older?" She narrowed her eyes, unsure if it was a compliment. "I don't know," he smiled. "Maybe just … confident and … strong." His voice trailed off and he repeated, "You're so strong. And beautiful." Claire's lip quivered, and he shook his head. "Hey, hey, hey," he whispered. "Don't cry now."

"I tried so hard, Mac." He furrowed his brow. "I tried to be strong every day and never let myself think about what could happen to you. And I wanted to do everything I could do to make things easier for you, because … I didn't want you to worry." The tears kept flowing. "It was so hard," she said. "And I told you I wasn't scared, but I was. I was scared."

"You did fine," he reassured, his hand wiping at her tears. "Claire," he said quietly. She sniffled and he repeated, "Claire." She took a deep shaky breath and he pulled her face to his. He kissed her nose and then her wet cheeks and then her mouth. He said simply, "It's over." He nodded, reassuring her. She breathed out. "It's over, babe. I'm home now."

* * *

Mac sat on the single step at the edge of the concrete patio and looked into the night. In the Middle East, the sky was midnight blue with sparkling stars. Here in Chicago, it was tinged orange all night, an unfortunate result of light pollution. There wasn't much about the Middle East that he missed. The night sky, though, was one thing. He remembered writing Claire about it and being disappointed at the description on paper. He couldn't convey what he saw.

His mother slept with his father in the den, so she had given up the master bedroom – and the double bed – for the newlyweds. Mac had left Claire naked in his parents' bed, a truly disturbing thought if he let himself go there. Two hours ago, he wasn't thinking about that, though. Instead, he was rediscovering how brilliant sex could be with his wife. He knew it was over just a little too fast for Claire, and it was a bit more cathartic for him than her. Frankly, he was a little embarrassed at what seven months of missing his wife could do to a man. Still, she only wanted to be close to him, and as long as she had the chance to inspect every inch of him - he had told her he was fine - she didn't seem to mind. There would be time to make it up to her.

He wore a sweatshirt that he had left behind. It seemed Claire had worn it and it needed a good wash. Still, it smelled of her, and it comforted him. When the April wind blew, he was cool, but otherwise he was comfortable. It felt good to be outside without sand blowing in his face. And what was it his dad always said? _Fresh air is good for you._ It might be below zero, Mac recalled wryly, but it was still good for you.

Things came to him now. Little sayings or quirky habits his dad had, and he realized how good a man his father was. _Is_, Mac corrected himself. He was still breathing in that bed. Barely, Mac knew, but he was alive. Maybe another day or two. The men had talked today, briefly at least, and he had said some things that Mac had waited a lifetime to hear: _You did good, son_. That meant something. _She's a good woman_. That was important too. His father encouraged Mac to go to New York, even extracting a promise out of him. Mac knew that was a decision that he and Claire needed to make together, and deathbed promise or not, it needed more discussion. At that moment, his father hadn't been thinking about his mother living alone in a Chicago bungalow. That responsibility had already transferred to Mac, it seemed. Still, it was nice to know his father wanted the best for him. And really why had Mac ever doubted it?

Mac pulled a full pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of the sweatshirt. He unwrapped them and tapped the pack until a cigarette came out. He reached in his back pocket for the lighter. Two flicks and it ignited. He breathed in as he lit. It was the first one in twenty-four hours. He had told himself he was quitting and didn't allow himself a single one the entire time he was in transit. Still, the duty-free shop in the Frankfurt Airport displayed them prominently, and the frugal Midwesterner never could pass up a good deal.

"I was looking for you," Claire's voice interrupted. "The bed was empty." He glanced backwards and she was pulling a cardigan sweater tight around her body, two bottles in her left hand. "You want a beer?" she asked, holding one out.

"I'd love one," he nodded, reaching back. He balanced the cigarette in his mouth and twisted the cap off before he set the bottle on the patio. He reached for hers and did the same maneuver a second time. They clanked bottles in a silent toast and each took a long swig. Claire didn't comment on the cigarette. He appreciated that.

"Can't sleep?" she asked, sitting on the patio beside him.

"Jet lag," he replied. She nodded and pulled the sweater over her knees. Her hair fell in her face and she ran a hand through it to pull it back. He resisted the urge to touch it again. She had already teased him once about being obsessed with it. She didn't mind though. In fact, he was quite certain she liked it. She gestured towards the cigarette. He arched his eyebrow and she nodded. She wanted to share it. Mac handed it to her and she took in a long, deep inhale. She handed it back to him as she released the breath slowly, a plume of smoke rising into the night. "Good?" he smiled.

"It would be better if it was pot," she deadpanned. Mac chuckled a little. He himself had never tried the drug. He guessed his wife had. After a beat, she asked, "Do you want to be left alone?" He tilted his head quickly to make eye contact. She was just asking, he saw, and she didn't mind either answer. She had found him alone, so she was checking if he wanted to remain alone.

"No. Stay," he said. "But I'm in a quiet mood. Maybe not the best company."

"We'll see about that," she muttered, sliding her head under his arm until his hand holding the beer was sitting on her shoulders. He laughed through his nose. He already felt better. "So," she said cheerfully. "I have news." He arched his eyebrows and waited. "I have officially been rejected at every grad school I applied to, except for Chapel Hill."

"In North Carolina," he stated.

"Correct."

"They don't know what they're missing," he replied, squeezing her gently.

"That's sweet of you to say," she said, "But I did really bad on the GMAT. I probably should have picked some safety schools."

He shrugged a shoulder, and took a last inhale of the cigarette. He released the smoke as he said, "You set high standards. Nothing wrong with that."

"Except I didn't get in," she said. He handed her the remainder of the cigarette and leaned over to press smoky lips against her temple. He still believed in her. "Anyway, if you don't want to retire," she began. Mac furrowed his brow. Despite what he had told his dad, the decision was all but a done deal. He was merely waiting for the right moment to speak to Claire about it. "I'm saying, if you want to stay in the Marines," she started again quietly, "We could make it work with Chapel Hill." She finished the cigarette and dropped it on the patio, putting it out with her shoe.

He bit his lip and then shook his head. She tilted hers, confused. "No. I'm not interested in you living three hours away," Mac said. She smiled a little. "If you want to go to Chapel Hill," he said, "I'll get a job there." She arched her eyebrows. "I don't know what I'd do," he smiled, "But we'd figure it out."

"Truth is, Mac," she confided. "I don't want to go to Chapel Hill."

"So let's not then," he said simply.

"I don't really know what I want. I wanted U of C or Columbia so long that it's hard to think of anything else."

"Yeah," he said with a nod, lifting his beer. He took a long drink and then suggested, "I think we focus on geography then. I have job offers in Chicago and New York. You seem to like either place."

"But what about the Marines?" she pressed earnestly. "Because I could live at Camp Lejeune with you." Mac rolled his eyes and chuckled a little. "Do you think you'd ever get relocated? Like to Japan? Or Germany? Because that could be cool."

He stood up with his beer and wiped a palm on his jeans. He took a step into the yard and looked outwards. "What about Qatar? Or Iceland? Is that cool too?" Claire met his questions with silence. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I … I think I'm done," he announced quietly. "It's been a good run, Claire, but it's time to try something else." He took a long sip from the bottle and Claire joined him. "I like that job in New York, and your family's there," he said logically.

"But your mom will be here," she countered. "By herself."

Mac ran a hand over his mouth and nodded slowly. He paced in a small circle, his face tightened in concentration. Occasionally, he sipped at his beer. "I worry about her," he said at last. "How's she gonna take care of this place? What if she gets sick?" She nodded. They needed to live in Chicago; Claire knew that. But then Mac smiled at her. "But I'm home. And you're graduating. It's our time now. And if you agree," he said, gesturing towards her. "I think New York is what we should do." Claire approached him and rest her hand on his cheek. She looked in his eyes and appraised him. She was asking him if he was certain. "I'm sure," he said quietly. He reached up and placed his hand on top of hers. He squeezed gently.

* * *

"You know every ounce of your body is hard," Claire whispered. She ran her hands over his bare chest and down to the top button on his jeans.

"I can think of some dirty responses to that," he teased, his eyes sparkling.

She laughed as Mac pulled her closer. "I gave that to you, Mac. Don't think you're clever." She had put drawstring pants on for sitting outside. His hands found the loop on the inside of them. "Still, I'd like to hear them," she teased, popping the button on his jeans.

"You would, huh?" Two sets of hands didn't fit and his were bigger so Claire lifted hers above her head and arched her back a little. His eyes were dark as he untied the string and leaned over to her ear and whispered, "I didn't know you liked it that way. I thought you were sweet and innocent and all that."

She squirmed at his words but kept up the banter. "Sometimes I'm good," she said, bringing her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips with an open mouth and then shimmied out of the bottoms with his assistance. "But you should know by now that's all bullshit," she grinned, showing off her risqué panties. She turned to walk away, giving Mac a show.

"Christ, Claire," Mac said from right behind her. He hooked his thumbs in the black lace but left them on, leaning over and kissing her neck. She reached down and grasped his hands on her hips. "You saved these for round two?" he whispered, tugging her close to press his body against her.

She grinned at the sensation. "You are such the Alpha male tonight." She stepped away and turned towards him, pulling her tank over her head.

"Seven months, Claire," he replied, stepping towards her to help her get rid of the garment. "That's what happens."

"What are you talking about?" she retorted. She pretended to look at her watch. "It's been three hours."

"Too long," he replied, closing the gap again. She squealed as he backed her onto the bed. She fell backwards, her legs hanging over the edge. He leaned over her and ordered, "Shhhh. My parents are downstairs. Right below us."

"Ew," she said. "This bed's noisy too."

"Then you are going to have to be very quiet and still," he teased, finding her hands.

He held her hands above her head and she felt his body settle on top of her. She wiggled her hands a little, knowing she couldn't free herself from his grasp unless he released her. He let go quickly, and she leaned down to unzip his jeans. "Get these off," she ordered.

Mac reached up with his index finger and placed it on her lips. "Shhh…" he repeated. She furrowed her brow and looked at him skeptically, wondering if the desert had left him with some weird kinky shit that he was trying to address. She opened her mouth and he shook his head. He said, "I want to say something." She smiled and gave him a coy look. His thumb brushed under the lace on her hip, and she waited.

He stared in her eyes and stopped moving. He slowed the entire pace. He ran a hand over her hair and down to her shoulder. He slid his hand down until his thumb brushed across her breast. She exhaled with desire, and he smiled. He kissed her neck and then his lips brushed across her chin. Then he whispered in her ear, "Lay still. This time it's your turn."

* * *

Upstairs, a couple was eager to recover lost time. A wife lay in her husband's arms, basking in the intimacy of rediscovery. Her feet were between his. Her head was tucked under his chin. She lay across his chest and spoke. He nodded. She laughed. His hand traced circles on her back. He was there, the gesture said, and he loved her.

Downstairs, a couple longed for more time. A wife slid next to her husband, holding tight to the last moments that he would share only with her. Her arm lay over his chest. Her head was tucked under his chin. She whispered. He was silent. His hand was still, but she felt his fingers move on her arm. He was there, the gesture said, still there, and he loved her.


	15. How to Run a Railroad

**A/N: Don't own any of the CSINY characters. A few of my favorites are in here - hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**How to Run a Railroad**

Mac held the Styrofoam cup and turned the spigot, releasing the flow of syrupy black liquid. Just eight ounces of the coffee-like beverage would be enough to keep Mac awake through the night. He sipped at it and grimaced. He reached for a packet of sugar and stirred it in, watching the crystals dissolve. If the sweetener wasn't enough to convert it into something tolerable, he might just take up his wife's habit and pay $4 a cup for the gourmet stuff.

From the break room (if that's what you call a coffee maker resting on a card table in a closet), Mac observed the decrepit lobby. The sofa had frayed seams, and it was covered in dog hair due to the K-9 officers who occasionally allowed the animals to roam free. The side table was scratched, but it held magazines. Of course, none of them had actually been published in the nineties. He supposed it didn't matter. The public rarely frequented this place, and when they did, they were typically distracted by the fact that they were here to visit the Morgue, which occupied two of the sub-surface levels. The "Lab" was really nothing more than a labyrinth of closets in the basement of the building. Claire had quipped that _she _was lucky he had been deployed during the interview process. He would never have taken the job had he seen the location. Unfortunately, her assessment held more than a kernel of truth.

Mac wasn't one for clichés, but this was no way to run a railroad. The New York City Crime Lab, as an official institution, didn't. actually. exist. This was not crystal clear to him until day three of the job. He was officially attached to the Homicide division, even though he mostly processed rape kits that were collected by forensics nurses at hospitals. He reported to a detective with a non-science degree from a junior college. He mostly told Mac to "do whatcha gotta do. You got free reign of the place."

Mac was practically writing the Crime Scene Investigator job description, which was ironic given that he seemed to be supervising two others who had preceded Mac in the hiring process and referred to themselves as CSI's. As far as Mac could tell, they processed evidence that had been collected in a disturbingly casual manner by detectives who believed _Forensics _was a euphemism for fingerprint analysis.

He was giving it three months and no more. His wife suggested he give it seven months. After all, he had been deployed that long – this couldn't be worse, could it? Yes, he told her. It could, and it was. At least when he had been deployed, an effective chain of command existed, and he was engaged in a clear mission. This was disorganized, undisciplined and too amateur for someone who thrived on precise perfectionism.

Mac wondered what his father would say. If he were alive, Mac doubted he would have even told him the true nature of the job. His father had died thinking Mac was going to the "best" lab in the country. Their communication style had never been particularly candid, so, in reality, Mac probably would have let his father think that. Still, in his imagination, Mac carried on intensely honest conversations with his father. He told him anything, craving every nickel of advice his father ever gave. Sometimes, he even heard his father speaking back to him. It sounded creepy, and he didn't tell anyone else about it.

Mac was a scientist, though, and he knew he wasn't going crazy. It was his brain's response to grief. Strictly scientifically speaking, grief increased the production of cortisone-like hormones, which increased anxiety, reduced the efficacy of his immune system, stressed his central nervous system. Ergo, he slept less, felt distracted, spent days in a fog. And, occasionally, he talked to his father.

Claire understood, although he never told her he could hear his father. She said it reminded her of the days after she gave up her baby. He remembered her writing him about it – she cried at night, didn't sleep well, lingered on small details. She told him to give it time. _You can't fight it, you just have to go through it. And as you come out of it_, she promised, _your job will get better too._

Maybe.

Still, Mac spotted opportunities, and given the right set of circumstances, Mac thought they might be able to do something with them. One of the lab techs, a junior cop with red hair whose last name was Shelby had called him over once to look at a sample under a microscope. It had been part of a rape kit, which wouldn't have been such a big deal if it hadn't been evidence that was _not _typically collected by a nurse. Mac had furrowed his brow, surprised at what he was seeing. "Where did you get this?" he asked, sensing that the unusual sampling of plant material could break the case. _I went over there,_ she said, _and got it off the victim myself. _Imagine that, Mac thought. The young woman went toe-to-toe with the territorial sex crimes detective. He didn't know if he liked her, but at least she showed initiative.

He also was impressed with a blonde civilian in DNA. She was a private contractor working only half-time with the NYPD but when Mac spoke with Ms. Parsons, he felt as if he was looking at the future of Forensic Science. DNA evidence and its use in criminal matters was new, not well-standardized and looked at with a fair bit of skepticism, particularly by defense attorneys. Still, Jane had high standards. She insisted on appropriate sample sizes and was exceedingly precise. She required extensive matching before she approved. He didn't know how anyone could argue with her results.

And then there was the Morgue. He had been told that he would get autopsy reports from the Medical Examiner's Office and he could use those in his analyses. That worked fine for nine days. On the tenth, Mac had a question about the toxicology report, namely why it was blank and he needed to wait another forty-eight hours for the results. He took the decrepit stairway two floors down and what he found down there astounded him.

Dr. Leonard Giles, a few years older than Mac, welcomed Mac to his lair. He gave him a tour of the creepy floors, demonstrated some of his techniques, described an autopsy in fascinating detail, and then led him to a library of obscure forensics journals and reference books. "Feel free to come down here," he said. "Anytime." Mac nodded, already paging through the index in a book on evidence collection. In the last few weeks, Dr. Giles had become somewhat of a mentor to Mac. His open door policy – and his top secret coffee machine that brewed a recognizable beverage – had meant that Mac could disappear beneath the ground for hours and come up refreshed.

Mac glanced at the clock. It was nearing midnight, and he had four sex assault kits resting on his desk. He knew that he would find little that would help get a predator off the streets. Investigative work was still remarkably old-fashioned, requiring Sherlock Holmes-like detection. It occurred to him that if a real CSI – like Officer Shelby for instance – could collect some of the evidence off the victims, they may even have a shot at using DNA in court. It was scientifically possible and had even been done on occasion. _Was she on nights this week_? he tried to remember. He wondered what she would think of that.

* * *

Claire slid her feet into the black patent pumps and took a walk around the shoe section. They were exactly what she needed – high enough to look professional and make her legs look skinny and muscular, but low enough to be comfortable in the office all day. The price tag, however, was not what she needed, and she reluctantly slipped them off.

She had been recently hired for an entry-level position in the marketing department of an investment bank. Given her father's work in the industry, Claire could talk the talk better than the other applicants who had been called back for interviews. The job had been a boon to her self-esteem, still reeling after her rejection from grad school.

It was good to be working, she told herself, and it would be even better when she got a paycheck. She was tired of playing house in their studio apartment while Mac spent his days working. And now that he was working nights, she found it awkward to creep around the apartment all day while he slept. It was a relief to have something to do.

She loved him, she really did, but now that they actually lived together, little things seemed to annoy him. For instance, if he got up first, he didn't like to come home to find the bed unmade. _It's a one-room apartment, Claire. I don't want to live like a slob._ She rolled her eyes, but she could make a bed. It wasn't that big of a deal. He also had a bizarre belief that a wet towel would have mildew growing on it in a matter of seconds. He practically followed her out of the bathroom to retrieve the towel the second it hit the floor. "I got it, Mac," she snapped in irritation. _You don't want it on the floor, babe._ Okay. Whatever.

It was the money stuff, though, that really got him twitchy. For example, Mac was taking out the kitchen garbage one night. _Three coffees from Starbucks? _he quipped. _What do you need that much caffeine for?_ She had arched her eyebrows. "I like good coffee." _Well try to keep it under fifty bucks a week, alright?_ He was kidding, she knew. He'd prefer she keep it under ten dollars a week.

She walked towards the Clearance section. Maybe she could find a pair there, she thought picking up a single black shoe. The heel was a little too high for her tastes, but she slid her foot into it. Maybe a little tight, but it could work. She flipped it over to see the clearance sticker and frowned. The pair was still too expensive. She and Mac had established a tight budget for her work wardrobe and his. He had stuck to the budget; she would not exceed hers either. She simply would not.

Because he was right about the money.

He didn't earn all that much as a cop. In fact, when you took into account military benefits, a housing allowance and hazard pay, he was taking home less than he did as a Marine. And it had been Claire's wish to live in Manhattan, close to their jobs. Mac had hesitated as they did a last walk-through of the apartment. _It's small, Claire, _he said. _And pricey. Plus you're not working yet, _he said quietly. But I will be! she insisted. Now that she was, she felt like she and Mac had already spent the first paycheck that hadn't yet arrived.

Financial independence was not what she had expected. During his deployment, her parents still paid for her school, which also happened to include room and board. She didn't think she had lived a lavish lifestyle. She had never run up a huge balance on the credit card her dad paid each month, but she had never said no either. She needed a new coat, she bought it. She wanted to buy a pizza, she bought it. She needed a pair of black pumps to go with her new suit, well she could buy those too.

Yeah. Maybe not.

Suddenly, living in New York City was a reality check to their mutually-shared pocketbook. Mac had two years left on his student loans from University of Chicago, which of course she knew about, but she had no concept of what it meant to pay $387 a month, every month. Electrical, water, telephone, groceries, insurance, clothes, not to mention rent and the occasional movie out… It added up fast.

Mac was pragmatic though and eternally optimistic in his own realistic way. _Just give it a few months, Claire. We'll get these big expenses out of the way. We'll each get a raise. Things will settle._

Until then … she was bypassing the Bloomingdales shoe rack.

* * *

Once a Marine, always a Marine, or so the saying went. Mac held the shoe up in the dim light and inspected it carefully. Would it pass a military inspection? he questioned. That was his standard for polishing his wife's worn black shoes, and the answer, unfortunately, was no. The polish had bled into the sole, which was not acceptable. He took the white rag – an old undershirt of his – and rubbed at it until the black disappeared. One more critical examination, and he was satisfied. He placed the shoe on the rug beside the gleaming right shoe and just to the left of Claire's old sneakers.

Mac fastened his badge to his pants and unlocked the safe that held his firearm. After holstering his weapon, he stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Since they hadn't shared a meal this week, neither had prepared much to eat. He crouched down and peeked into a Tupperware container. He sniffed at the mystery meat, and decided it was fine. It resembled Sloppy Joe's. He pulled out carrot sticks. Finally, he was pleased to find a bag of four hamburger buns stuffed in the back. They were dry, but not moldy, so Mac could assemble a meal of Manwich sandwiches and carrots.

He stood at the counter as he ate, one eye on the clock. He glanced backwards when Claire entered the apartment, finished with her long day of work. She dropped her bag on the floor with a weary sigh and then commented, "You're still home." She reached for a small Walgreens bag that she tucked under her arm.

He glanced at his watch. "Five minutes or so. Then I have to go." He pointed towards his food and asked, "You want dinner?"

"Sure," she said quietly. Mac stopped eating and prepared the rest of the meat for Claire. He placed the plate in the microwave and then reached in the refrigerator for a Diet Coke for her. She accepted it and handed him the plastic bag. "I'll trade." He opened it up and arched his eyebrows. He pulled out a pack of Nicorette gum and frowned. "You have to stop," she said quietly. He tossed it on the counter and nodded wordlessly. He clenched his jaw. "Come on, Mac. Don't be mad."

"I'll quit, Claire," he said irritably. "I don't know why it bothers you. I don't smoke inside. I don't smoke at work. Nobody even knows I –"

"You smell like smoke," she interrupted, wrapping her arms around his waist. "People know. Don't be dense." He frowned but rest his hands on her back. "It bothers me that you smoke, my love," she said sweetly, "because it's so, so bad for your health."

"_You _smoke," he defended.

"One cigarette a month is not the same as half a pack a day, which is what you're up to, if I'm not mistaken."

_Try a full pack. _He thought about another retort, but there was really nothing to say. He knew it was bad for him. The microwave bell dinged, and he kissed her forehead before releasing her to finish the food. The conversation was over.

They ate on their feet, both leaning against the counters. Occasionally, Mac sipped at a glass of water and Claire sipped at a Diet Coke. He finished first and rinsed his plate and glass in the sink. He squirted some soap on the dishes and washed them with his hand. Then he dried them and put them inside the cabinet. He glanced at his watch. "I gotta run, babe." She nodded, and he leaned over and kissed her lips quickly. He picked up the package of gum and looked at it skeptically. "I don't even chew gum." Still, he tucked it into his inside suit pocket.

* * *

Mac hopped out of the vehicle that he parked at the edge of the wooded area in Central Park. He quickly observed a junior cop putting up a crime scene tape and the old, weathered detective by the name of Don Flack pacing around the body. Mac resisted two urges – one was to smoke a cigarette and the second was to inform Detective Flack that he was trampling on the evidence. It wouldn't do to criticize him, Mac reminded himself. Detective Flack was the first Homicide detective to pay attention to the C.O.'s request that crime scene investigators actually get called to crime scenes before bodies are released to the Office of the Medical Examiner.

Mac reached into his suit coat and opened the box for his third piece of gum of the night. It actually worked, he had been surprised to realize, and so he had solved his first problem. He checked to make sure his badge was prominently displayed, and he ducked under the crime scene tape. He held his hand out. "Detective Flack?"

The older detective shook his hand and said, "Detective Taylor, I presume." Mac nodded, and Flack continued skeptically, "I heard you been with us about two weeks."

Mac crouched down and tilted his head to look at the body carefully. He corrected quietly, "Fourteen, actually." _Which is more than three months_, he thought, reminding himself of the self-imposed deadline that had passed.

Flack crouched down next to him, his knees cracking beneath his weight, and he confirmed, "You're a military guy, right?"

"I was in the Marines," Mac replied. He reached into his suit for a pair of latex gloves. If Flack noticed, he didn't bat an eyelash.

"Oh yeah?" Flack said, slightly impressed by the Marine reference. "You see any action?"

"Some," Mac answered. "Enough," he added, after a beat.

"I hear ya," he replied. "Still, I got a son who wants the Marines. The other wants to be a cop like his old man." Mac nodded silently. "Which is better?" he asked wryly.

"Jury's still out," Mac replied. For some reason, Flack thought that was funny, and he released a jolly laugh. Mac didn't chuckle; he meant what he said. Instead, he focused on business and lift the victim's arm to peer beneath it. There was a yellow bruise, not from the murder. Fresh bruises were black and blue. He squinted and looked carefully at the pink residue on the bottom of the arm. _What the hell is that? _he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Flack stand up and eye him carefully. He didn't want Mac to mess this up. Mac replaced the victim's arm and then asked, "Do you have an ID?"

Flack nodded and looked at his memo book. "Amy Fox. Her purse was dumped a hundred yards back. No cards or cash. She's 24." Mac gave a nearly imperceptible nod. "One of my guys went to notify her family." Mac's naturally observant eyes took in the surroundings. Foliage was trampled everywhere, and he remembered Officer Shelby's findings from a week past. "You see what you wanted to see?" Flack asked Mac before he started to wave over the techs from the ME's office. He wanted to clear the body before the morning joggers arrived.

Mac stood up and took off his gloves. He made eye contact with the blue-eyed detective. "Detective Flack," he said, resting his hands on his waist. "I'd like to collect some samples from the victim before you move her."

"Here?" the older man replied incredulously. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Out of the question. That happens at the morgue."

"Lab," Mac corrected. "I don't work in the morgue."

"Whatever," Flack snapped. "This is where _I _work. That's where _you_ work." Mac frowned. He added, "They tell me science is the future. You ask me, it takes time away from finding a killer."

Mac was frustrated but he took care not to show it. Maybe that was how things were done until now, but if anything was actually going to happen with the NYPD's newest initiative on forensic science, things had to change. Despite the quick denial, Mac sensed he had an opening with Flack. He had a reputation as a top-notch investigator who liked to close cases fast. Mac could help.

"You want to crack this case?" Mac challenged. Flack stared back, annoyed with Mac. "With all due respect, Detective Flack," Mac said more quietly, "It's my opinion that we'll lose evidence if we move her too fast."

Flack looked at the victim thoughtfully. His eyes flitted towards Mac, and then back to the victim. Finally, he nodded. "Hold up, guys," he said to the techs from the ME's office. He looked at Mac and seemed to think. "What kind of evidence?" he finally replied.

He was testing, and Mac knew it. "DNA under her fingernails. Trace on her clothes. Samples of the environment. It can all be used to catch a killer." Detective Flack's icy blue eyes appraised Mac's. Mac clarified, "This vic is coated with a crystalline substance. If we move her, it shakes all over the ground and we miss some of its essential properties." Mac lift his chin a notch to exude confidence. "Last week?" Flack nodded. "We matched plant material to a gardener in Queens. We caught a serial rapist that way." Flack furrowed his brow. _Come on,_ Mac thought. _Let me do my job._

"Fine," Flack said, holding his hands up in the air. "What do I care? I got no leads anyway."

Mac nodded and assured him, "I'll get you something you can use." Flack looked skeptical and simply waved him towards the body. _Get moving_, the gesture said.

Mac's first stop was to the cruiser where he radioed back to the Lab, requesting Officer Shelby's presence, with a kit containing gloves, collection tools and a permanent marker. He rummaged in his briefcase and pulled out the few tools he had thought to bring, all stored in a hygienic and sanitary manner, of course. He pulled out a second pair of gloves from his pocket and went to the body.

When Shelby showed up ten minutes later, he watched her step carefully towards Mac. She zigzagged over the ground, avoiding all potential evidence in the crime scene. She also carried a metal case that she had scrounged up somewhere. He smiled inwardly. It made it look like she did this every day. She turned her back to Detective Flack and the four techs from the ME's office and asked sideways, "Okay, Detective Taylor. You wanna tell me what I'm doing here?"

"Glove up," he muttered under his breath, aware that they were being watched. "Collect everything you can think of. Be deliberate and thorough. Do not let them rush you. Start somewhere and don't move on until you're done. Make sure you label everything with your initials with a permanent marker over the seal. You know why?" he asked, vaguely aware he might be training his first deputy on evidence collection.

"Chain of custody," she replied quietly.

"You got it," Mac nodded.

"What about blood evidence?" she asked.

"Did you think to grab those swabs that Ms. Parsons uses?" She nodded. "So let's collect it that way and see if we can figure out how to make it useful. Be careful, though. Change your gloves regularly. We can't cross-contaminate." After a beat, he added, "Also, think about the temperature. We have to get that back to the Lab quickly."

"But don't rush, right?" she muttered, crouching down. Mac raised his eyebrows; was she teasing him? "I know what I'm doing," she said coolly. Mac nodded.

She looked at the body a moment. Then she opened her case and pulled out a swab. "I'm starting with the pink stuff," she said.

Mac, two steps away from her, opened his suit coat as he crouched down. "It's over here too." With gloved hands, he pat at the dirt beneath him.

She leaned over to hand him a swab and a tiny enveloped. She asked under her breath, "How'd you manage to wiggle your way onto the crime scene?"

"Sharp elbows," Mac replied. "Let's go."

* * *

Officer Shelby and Mac worked through the night and next day, barely taking a break. Detective Flack was impressed with their work ethic, more impressed with their results. He even showed up in the lowly basement to thank Mac personally for the lead and to invite the CSI-Detective along to make the collar. That had felt good, Mac thought as he pulled his bag together. He had enjoyed placing the cuffs on the man and had taken satisfaction in the confession that Detective Flack had extracted from him. Mac had watched from the other side of the interrogation glass; he could do that too, he knew. Yes, he could. When it was over, Flack came out, shook Mac's hand and informed him that Mac would be his first call next time he had a murder to solve.

He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could make that invitation for drinks. "You coming tonight?" the red-haired woman interrupted. She stood in the doorway of the tiny room where his desk was. Her hands were on the doorjamb and she leaned forward. "Flack invited us with the rest of the Homicide crew," she explained. "We should go out with them and celebrate."

Mac leaned over to slide a Forensics journal into his bag, and shook his head. "You go ahead, Officer Shelby. I just worked 24 hours and I'm beat. Plus I already have plans."

"Oh," she said, her eyes disappointed. She shrugged a single shoulder. "Okay. Another time then."

"Sure," Mac said, pulling the box of Nicorette gum out of his bag. He unwrapped another piece and looked up. _Why was she still standing there?_ "Another time," he said, popping the gum into his mouth.

After a moment, she took a step into his office. "You can call me Quinn, you know," she blurted.

Startled, Mac narrowed his eyes and appraised her. He nodded. Then he smiled a little. "Okay." Nothing else to say, and still she stood there. He swung his bag over his shoulder. He was leaving. "Nice work today," he said, sliding past her. "You have a good night." He left without a glance back.

* * *

Claire turned some heads as she slid sideways between the tables, trying not to bang her purse and briefcase against the strangers. The fancy suit from the clearance rack at T.J. Maxx hugged her curves perfectly and the bright red scarf tied smartly around her neck added a stylish touch. After ten hours of work, her makeup still looked fresh and her hair, held back in a smooth ponytail, was neat.

Chewing yet another piece of gum, Mac stood up as she arrived. He reached out to grab her bag and kiss her cheek. "I didn't tell you that I am loving the suit," she said, squeezing his maroon tie. "With a gray shirt too. You look sharp." Mac laughed a little. "And," she began, sitting down. She kicked her shoes out to show Mac. "Thank you. My shoes look great." He reached down and squeezed her shoe with his hand and winked. "How was work?" she asked. "And more importantly, did you order the beer already?"

He nodded and added, "And the pizza too," he said.

"Wow. A night out. Don't look now, but this might be called a date." Mac smiled a little and she squeezed his hand. "So what are we celebrating?"

He placed his hands palms down on the table. He look a little bashful as he bragged, "I broke a case."

She arched her eyebrows and leaned forward. "Tell me."

"Last night, I pushed my way onto the crime scene. I called Officer Shelby?" Mac stopped, asking with the silence if Claire recognized the name. She nodded. "She and I collected trace from the victim." Claire nodded, her eyes lighting up as he spoke. "The victim was covered in pink crystals." She furrowed her brow. "It was sugar," he smiled.

"Cotton candy?" Claire asked, eyebrows arched.

He smiled. "Remind me why you're not a cop."

"Because you touch dead bodies, and that's gross," she said. "Still. Go on." Mac nodded at the server who set a pitcher of beer and two mugs on the table. Mac filled hers to the top and slid it over to her. She sipped at it, leaving a mustache of foam above her top lip.

Mac continued, "The homicide detective and I tracked the cotton candy vendors at the park. One of them had a record. So …"

"You arrested him," she completed.

"That's right," he said with a nod. "_I_ actually arrested him," Mac said after a pause. "It was my first major collar," he said proudly.

"Congratulations," she said. She smiled and then she said quietly, "Your dad would have been proud." Mac wrinkled his nose and shrugged. "You know he would have," she insisted, holding her beer up. He held his up and they clanked glasses quietly.

He took a sip and then he nodded slowly. "Probably," he said quietly. He set his beer down and rubbed his hand across his mouth. His eyes still sparkled and the corners of his lips still turned up.

Claire leaned back in her chair and cupped the mug with two hands. "My my my… Dare I say my husband might actually like his job?"

Mac frowned and shook his head. "There's a lot of things wrong with this job." Claire didn't stop smiling. Mac tapped the table twice with his hand. Then he nodded. "But maybe this could work out," he admitted after a beat.

* * *

A/N: I just had to bring in some of my favorite minor characters – Jane Parsons from seasons one and two, Dr. Giles from season one (the super smart man in the wheelchair), and Quinn Shelby from season 4. And _this _Detective Flack is the father, in case that wasn't clear.


	16. Another Day Above Ground

**Another Day Above Ground**

Mac moved quietly through their studio apartment, avoiding the places on the hardwood floors that squeaked. After eighteen months of sharing a single room with Claire, he knew how to shower, make coffee and pick a matching tie for his suit without waking her up. Although the night sky still lingered at five in the morning, Mac opened the blinds. The street lamps cast enough light through the windows to illuminate his morning routine.

He and Claire had settled into New York City nicely. It no longer felt unusual for Mac to fasten his badge to his pants or unlock a gun safe sitting on the floor of their closet. It wasn't strange to watch Claire pull on a skirted suit and blow dry her hair until it was silky smooth. Mac knew how to take the subway to Queens and could recite at least three different variations of public transportation to get to work. The weeks were packed with work and Mac's studies. But, on Saturdays, they were regulars at a favorite hole-in-the-wall diner – Claire preferred French toast while Mac ate the oatmeal. They enjoyed the occasional movie, a night out to eat (usually pizza, burgers or some other cheap cuisine), and walks in Central Park.

They were a subway ride away from Claire's family, and it meant they could make Sunday night dinners or her brother's soccer matches. Twice a month, Claire's father invited Mac for dinner or drinks without Claire. Mac wasn't sure why the man continued to make the request, but he enjoyed the steaks and the occasional cigar that accompanied it. Claire clashed with her mother, finding her impossibly shallow or too materialistic or … whatever the feeling of the week was. For his part, Mac tried to stay out of it. He would support Claire to his dying day, but he believed that staying on the good side of his mother-in-law helped his wife too.

Mac tucked a textbook into his work bag. If he had down time, he would try to read it. Six months into the job, it had become apparent to Mac that he would need a graduate degree. He needed a part-time program – it was inconceivable that Mac would work anything less than full-time – and he needed a flexible program. He also wanted a cheap program. He had no intention of mortgaging their future so he could eke his way up ten grand on the NYPD pay scale. The quick search yielded Claire's alma mater – Brooklyn College. It wasn't convenient, but it was close to his in-laws so Mac occasionally spent a night there by himself, usually after his night classes.

He glanced at Claire, still sleeping in the bed. He needed to get going if he was going to be on-time for work. He pulled on a wool overcoat; it was a cold and gray day in late November. He swung his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his coffee and leaned over to press a brief kiss to her cheek. Just as he opened the door to leave, she whispered, "Hey."

He stopped and turned towards her. "Hey," he said in a quiet tone, trying not to be abrasive in the pre-dawn hours.

"Do you think you'll be home early tonight?" she mumbled, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Hard to say," he smiled. "With a bit of luck, yeah. I think so."

"Dinner then," she said. "I'll even cook." Mac nodded. "Have a good day, okay?" She turned in the bed, pulling the covers to her chin and closing her eyes.

"You too, babe," Mac said in closure.

* * *

Mac clocked in at 5:57, three minutes before the appointed time of his shift. He crossed the bullpen and nodded at Detective Flack who was holding a ceramic mug of coffee. "Morning, Taylor," he greeted, an open newspaper in front of him.

Mac nodded, sipping his own coffee from the travel mug he had brought from home. Flack stifled a yawn and Mac smirked. He paged through the files on the corner of Flack's desk. "Day's just starting, Flack."

"Yeah," he scoffed. Then he shook his head. "Be glad you don't have kids. Nothing but a headache." Mac smiled and waited for what he knew was going to be a tirade about parental responsibilities. Flack picked up the paper and folded it in thirds. He held it up for Mac who shook his head. Flack tossed it in the nearest garbage. "My baby girl? Seventeen years old, right?" Mac nodded. "She decided it was a good idea to go to Brooklyn to drink with some numbnut she met at a high school football game."

"On a Monday? She shoulda at least waited for Friday," Mac deadpanned. He picked up a pile of folders and began to lift them one-by-one.

Flack ignored the quip and continued. "I got a call from the CO out there and had to bail her ass out of jail." Mac stopped flipping folders and looked up. He whistled under his breath. "She's in a world of hurt." Mac nodded sympathetically. She was a wild child and had given his friend more trouble than he could imagine. "The only thing that would be worse is if she gets pregnant. I swear to God," Flack muttered. He crossed himself sincerely. "We just gotta her through high school."

Mac shook his head but generally ignored the comment. He found a specific folder and set the rest back on the desk. He glanced at Flack. His jaw was tight with worry. Mac could see it. "Hey," Mac said, swatting his friend's arm gently with the folder. "I meant to ask. How's your son doing?" he asked, anxious to change the subject.

"The one in the Academy? Donnie?" Mac nodded. "He's doing fine. Or so he tells me." Mac nodded as the older detective's face lit up. "I worry about him, though. Should never 'a given 'im my name."

"You're a tough act to follow," Mac smiled.

Flack Senior nodded and then exhaled through his nose with a shake of his head. He was compartmentalizing his domestic challenges and beginning to focus on work. "And tell me, Taylor, why are you thumbing through my files?" he asked.

"I thought I remembered something." Flack waited, and Mac sat on the edge of the desk and turned pages. Finally, he nodded and handed Flack a page. "This case. Drug deal." He furrowed his brow. "You arrested a guy for selling crack out of his apartment." Flack nodded and shrugged. _So what? _he was saying. "He made bail. You're holding the case open while he's running all over town." Flack nodded. "Well, I collected the fingerprints from your complaining witness."

"Really?" Flack said. He reached for the folder to review it.

"The guy who called the cops and said his neighbor was selling drugs."

"He get arrested?"

"Nope. He's dead."

Flack sat a little straighter. "No kidding?" Mac arched his eyebrows with a nod. Flack shook his head and stood up. "I guess we have a suspect then." He tossed his empty Styrofoam cup into a garbage can and gestured with his thumb. "Let's get a warrant. He's a piece of shit crackhead. I'd love to get him for murder." He grabbed the Kevlar vest hanging on the back of the chair and pulled it over his generous frame. "You ready to knock a door down?" Mac chuckled a little but followed Flack out of the bullpen.

* * *

Mac tightened his Kevlar vest and squeezed at his eyes at the bridge of his nose. He checked his weapon, it was loaded and ready, and he glanced at Flack. The crusty detective nodded and then banged on the door with his fist. "NYPD!" he shouted. "Open up." They heard nothing, but Mac nodded towards the floor. He saw a shadow move from beneath the crack. Flack met his gaze. He saw it too. "Open up! It's the police!"

They heard the deadbolt turn and the door opened three inches, the chain still fastened. "Do you have a badge?" they heard a young voice ask. Mac creased his brow and glanced at Flack who sighed. He clenched his jaw but his eyes moved towards the door. _Show the badge_, his expression said. Mac took his badge off and held it in front of the crack in the door.

"Your dad home?" Mac asked returning the badge to his pants. The door closed, the chain was released, the door opened. Mac and Flack stepped across the threshold. Mac held his weapon down, trying not to alarm the child - about ten with a mop of curly brown hair. Flack did a quick sweep of the living room. "Where's your dad?" Mac repeated.

Suddenly, Flack shouted, "GUN!" Mac turned quickly towards a door that presumably led to a bedroom. Their weapons were trained on the twenty-something year old who had emerged, pointing a weapon at the police officers. "Drop it!" Flack shouted.

Mac reached for the child's arm and pushed him down to the ground, out of the line of fire, and he said forcefully to the child, "Don't move!" He looked at the man and yelled, "NYPD." With one eye on the child and one on the father holding a gun, Mac said calmly, "Put the gun down. Everyone's okay still. Nothing's happened."

"Get out of my home!" the man replied. "I'm defending my home."

"We're the police, and we have a warrant," Flack said. "I'll show it to you, but you need to put your weapon down first. Do it. Slowly."

Time slowed. With acute vision, Mac saw the perp's finger begin to clench the trigger of the weapon. Instinctively, Mac fired twice. His aim was straight, and the man hit the ground. For a third of a second, Mac stood immobile, his gun facing the floor, still hot from the bullets. Then time sped up, normal once again. Flack rushed to the man and tried to stave off the blood. Mac called for EMS, his eyes searching for the boy. With both hands on the chest of the man, blood spurted between Flack's fingers. His partner said quietly, "Give me your gun, Taylor." Mac nodded, unloaded it and set it on the floor beside his partner. Then Flack ordered, "Find the kid, alright?"

Mac turned around and saw the child peering out from a closet. Mac opened it, and the boy's eyes flitted from his father, bleeding on the floor as Detective Flack frantically tried to save him, to Mac, standing in front of him. "Hey," Mac said. "Let's go to the other room, okay?" The child shook his head and cowered at Mac's presence. Mac crouched down before him and reached out with his hand. The child moved away from Mac, but Mac leaned forward and said, "Come on, buddy. It's not good to be here."

The child blinked and then accused in a bewildered voice, "You shot my dad."

* * *

Mac moved effortlessly through the kitchen, sultry jazz filling the corners of the apartment, a cigarette resting in a green ashtray beneath an open window. He chopped an onion into slices and picked up a tomato, pausing to take an inhale on the cigarette. He heard the key in the door and stopped, turning to greet Claire.

"Are you seriously smoking in here?" she asked in greeting.

In response, he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. Then he ran it under cold water and dropped it in the garbage. "Nope. I'm not." Without a word, Claire toed off her shoes and dropped her bag on the floor. She greeted him in the kitchen with a quick kiss to his lips. She sniffed the air and then reached for the ashtray and rinsed it out before dropping it with a clatter in the sink. Mac brushed a hand over her shoulders and asked quietly, "How was your day?"

"It pretty much sucked," she said irritably. Mac glanced at her sideways as he ran the tomato under cold water. He rubbed at a blemish with his thumb, prepared to listen. Before she started speaking, she stood on her tiptoes and reached for a vanilla-scented candle on the top shelf of a cabinet. She couldn't quite get it, so Mac reached over her shoulder for it. With a pointed expression, she lit the candle with a match. She set it in the kitchen sink, a safe location if it got knocked over. She cleared her throat and then began, "So. I worked my ass off yesterday on that project." Mac nodded. "Per his orders, I faxed it to Chris at his hotel in Paris before I left yesterday. Of course, because of the time change I had two voice mail messages from him before I got into the office. The second was six minutes long, detailing all the 'fatal flaws' with the document." Mac furrowed his brow. "I didn't even have my coat off and the phone was ringing again. And," Claire continued, leaning against the counter, "he chewed me out for being late."

"What time did you get in?" Mac asked.

"8:30. I was early."

"The hell's his problem?" Mac asked, cutting the tomato into slices. "Isn't he on vacation in Paris?"

"Clearly not," Claire said. She sighed and then took her blazer off and tossed it onto a chair. Amusing Mac, she reached under her skirt and shimmied out of her pantyhose. She tossed them in the garbage. "There's a run in them." Mac nodded as he turned to the hamburger meat in a bowl. "What did you add to it?"

"For the burgers?" She nodded. "Onion soup mix."

"The dry packet?" He nodded. "Interesting," she said. She hopped onto the counter and then said, "Chris is an asshole." Mac nodded. "Did you know he threw a stapler at his secretary?" Mac raised an eyebrow. "I know. It's crazy." She clenched her jaw before saying, "I would have thrown it back." Mac smirked now. She ran her hands over her face and then groaned out loud. "What am I going to do?"

"What do you mean?" Mac asked, shaping the meat into four burgers.

"I can't stand working for him." Mac looked at her but didn't answer. "I like everyone else in that office. But he's awful."

"How do the rest deal with him?"

"They ignore him." She paused with a pronounced frown. "I can't really do that because he's decided I work for him. I'm his personal bitch," she declared. Mac chuckled softly and she shook her head. "It's really not funny babe."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I know." Mac walked a few steps to stand in front of her. He held his hands, covered in ground meat in the air, and she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. He kissed the top of her head and she murmured, "How was your day?"

"Normal."

She looked up quickly, "Really?" He nodded. "And so you pull out the first cigarette in over a year because you had a typical day?" Mac smiled now but nodded. He walked to the sink and washed his hands and dried them with a white towel. "Whatever," she said with a shrug, clearly not believing him.

"You could quit, you know," Mac said, anxious to keep the subject focused on Claire. "Your job. You could quit your job," he clarified. She looked at him in dismay. "Or not," he smiled. "What about trying to get more work from the other marketing people? Then you can be too busy to take his work?" She shrugged a single shoulder. "Hey," he whispered, squeezing her shoulder. "We'll figure it out."

* * *

Claire's lips pressed against Mac's collarbone. His breathing was shallow and his heart beat fast. "Shhhh," she whispered, trying to soothe him and push the nightmare away. Mac blinked a few times into the darkness and tried to slow his breathing. He released a shaky breath and Claire propped herself up on her elbow. She rest a hand over his heart and then moved it up to lightly run it through his hair. "It's just a nightmare, Mac," she said quietly. She felt his forehead with her hand and said, "You're sweating. Are you sick?" He shook his head and then squeezed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Tell me about it."

"No," Mac said quickly. "I don't … No."

"What's it about then? It's a nightmare, right? It's not real." He frowned, sitting up in the bed. He swung his legs over the side and leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. After a long moment of silence, she said, "You've never told me anything about Kuwait." He shook his head. "Or Beirut." He held his hand up, trying to tell her to stop talking. "Or whatever happened to you in the South Pacific."

He ran both hands over his head and linked them behind his neck. Then he added quietly, "I haven't told you about Nicaragua either."

"I didn't even know you were there."

"Nine days," he said with a shrug.

"Before or after me?" she pressed.

"Before," Mac said, reaching for a glass of water.

"Why don't you talk about it?"

He took a long drink, emptying the glass, and then he answered, "Because I don't want to."

Claire pulled her shirt over her knees and thought about her response. The couple sat in silence until Claire finally said, "You know that doesn't work anymore." He looked at her, but stayed quiet. "It's fine if you don't want to talk about the past. But you do have to tell me about what happened today."

"How do you know anything happened today?" he asked, a little defensively.

"Because I'm your wife and I can tell."

He nodded. He looked away and then stood up. She heard him move through the apartment, using the bathroom, getting another glass of water. Eventually, he returned to bed, his breathing steady. His heart rate was normal when she cuddled under his arm and rest her head on his chest. "I don't actually remember everything," he announced quietly. Claire didn't answer, not knowing if he was speaking to her about combat or about today. She wanted to stay silent, so he would keep talking, the darkness in the room providing shelter. "It was quiet and peaceful and then we were buried. Literally, we were buried. It was … like … what the _fuck _just happened?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, and Claire rest her hand on his forehead. He wasn't sweating anymore, but he was warm. He lift his hand to hers and squeezed. "And when I have this nightmare that I had tonight, I can't breathe because everywhere I look it's dark and there's stuff above me and below me and I'm trapped and I don't know which way to dig to get out. But mostly, I can't breathe." Claire nodded and pressed a kiss on his chest. His hand found her shoulders and he squeezed. "I know that part's not real. I wasn't actually buried. But some people were." He shook his head and said, "It was just my arm and part of my leg, but my face was above ground, and I could always breathe. But my friends suffocated. And I can't imagine not being able to breathe. It's …"

"It's terrifying," Claire completed. Mac nodded. "And then what happened?"

"In real life?" She nodded. He exhaled. "Just like that, I was free and we were all digging frantically but there was debris everywhere and everyone was yelling and people were screaming 'cause they were hurt and … then someone started shooting at us. Snipers were trying to take us out, one by one. And I didn't even know where my weapon was.

"Time passed. I don't know exactly what happened. But all of a sudden, I look down and my hands are elbow deep in a guy's chest and I'm thinking, surely, surely this isn't me because I don't know what I'm doing." Claire took note that he was speaking in the present tense, as if he was experiencing it again. He spoke into the darkness, not _to_ her, just around her. She stayed quiet, hearing horrifying details about his experience in Beirut for the very first time.

"And then, just like that, my chest is on fire and I think _I'm _dying. But I'm still the only one next to this guy, who thinks I'm his friend but I didn't even know his name until I read his uniform. His name was Whitney. He's still breathing but his lungs are full so it sounds strange. He's gurgling blood and it's pouring out of his mouth. And then it stops and the sound stops. He suffocated too." Claire closed her eyes, hating the pain in his voice.

"Then I look at myself and I see that I'm burned but I can breathe still. I see someone shooting at us from the top of this building. So I get up and I find a gun and I blow his fucking head off." Claire blinked in stunned shock. His hand shook as he wiped at his forehead. "I don't know how many people I killed." He added quietly, "Not enough."

He reached for a glass of water and sat up again. Claire sat up beside him and rest her hand on his leg. His voice wavered as he spoke, "Today, I shot and killed a father." Claire blinked in surprise. Mac nodded and said, "It was a good shot. I'm already cleared by IAB. I followed procedure. He had a gun. He was going to shoot us. So I fired first."

"Better him than you," Claire said, her chin rising a notch.

"Maybe," he nodded. "But he didn't kill anyone before I killed him."

"And thank God for that," she whispered.

"Still, at the end of the day, someone died and that someone had a kid. And who's to say that's the right outcome?"

Claire stood up and pulled a robe around her body. She walked into the kitchen and began to brew some coffee. "Are you going to sleep any more tonight?" she called. Mac didn't answer. She walked to the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans. She slid them on before reaching for a sweatshirt. "You wanna go for a walk?" she asked. Mac looked over his shoulder as his wife pulled the garment over her head. He furrowed his brow. It was the middle of the night. "I'm going. You feel like coming with?" With a light shake of his head, he stood up to join her.

* * *

Side by side, they meandered aimlessly, coffee mugs in their outside hands, their inside hands linked. The city never slept, and they weren't alone although it wasn't crowded either. At four in the morning, they found themselves enjoying one of New York's most famous holiday rituals – looking at the Christmas scenes in the department store windows without the hustle and bustle that normally accompanied the activity.

Mac glanced at his wife. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail, she had a stocking cap pulled over her ears, her eyes sparkled at the magical scene before her. Candy canes and sugar cookies, elves wrapping presents in gold, green and red, Santa Claus dropping gifts for eager children. So far from suffocation and death, guns and explosions, combat and war. He pulled her close to him. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I think you should quit your job," Mac announced. "Work for someone you like a bit better."

"We'll see," she said, after a beat. She turned in his arms and stood on her tiptoes, hoping for a real kiss. She pressed her lips against his and Mac brought her close. One of Mac's gloved hands rest behind her neck, the other held his coffee. "This is fun to do in the middle of the night," she said.

"It's almost worth a nightmare," he said sideways. Claire's smile didn't fade although she squeezed his arm sympathetically. She hugged him tight, squeezing his back and not releasing him. "Do you know how good you are for me?" he whispered into her shoulder.

"I do," she said softly. "But I'm only good for you because you make me who I am."


	17. Moving Up

**A/N: So much good stuff has been published lately! I'm catching up on my reading and reviews. R/L is keeping me busy right now, but when I have the time, I love to sit down and write. Thanks for sticking with the story!**

**Don't own the characters...**

* * *

**Moving Up**

_Spring 1993_

Claire stood in her office and looked out the window at the concrete jungle below. From her perch in the highest building in the world, people, no bigger than ants, swarmed along the sidewalks. Matchbox cars moved in an orderly direction. The sounds of sirens, horns and impatient pedestrians were left far below, unable to reach her office.

She turned to look around the room. Four boxes were stacked in the corner, labeled C TAYLOR with a black Sharpie. Three snapshots in black and white frames already occupied a prominent space on her bookshelf. She didn't trust the movers to get them to her new office without a scratch. They always made her smile, even on the most stressful of days: A younger Mac wearing his Dress Blues – one of her first photographs of her then-boyfriend; Claire whispering to a smiling Mac on their wedding day; And a candid shot of her husband in the desert, his arms extended upwards in the air as if to say to her, _See? This is what I'm dealing with_.

Two dozen red roses rest on the cherry veneer desk, nearly overpowering her with their scent. She picked up the card and read it again:

_Congrats on the promotion. So proud of you. Love, Mac_

With the promotion came an office and a raise and Claire now, officially, made more than Mac. He was the one with prior work experience and studying for a Master's. Claire fell into this job after college and had been promoted twice, _sans _the MBA she was certain she would need. Officially, her title was Assistant Director of Marketing. Unofficially, she ran the marketing department in much the same way that Mac ran the CSI department. Her boss was based in Los Angeles and relied on Claire to get things done. Mac's boss didn't understand science and relied on Mac to do whatever he did. Either way, they had both been performing jobs well beyond their pay grade. Claire had been rewarded with a well-deserved, and overdue, promotion. She only hoped the same would happen for Mac.

It came at a cost, though. Claire worked a lot – averaging 50 hours a week. Mac worked more. Claire was repaid in annual bonuses. Mac, on the other hand, was pushed out of the office to avoid overtime costs, and when he ignored the orders to leave, he was rewarded with …. nada. The NYPD didn't have the budget for overtime, he was informed, and they refused to pay it unless his attendance was required outside of his scheduled shifts.

Still, she hoped he would be repaid in a promotion. Ever practical, Mac informed Claire that _Detective – First Grade _was as far as his ambitions allowed within the NYPD unless the crime lab became an independent department. The lab's attachment to Homicide made his entire career a "special case", and no matter how good he was as a detective, he would always be viewed as a scientist first and a cop second. Mac believed, strongly, that the NYPD needed a Crime Scene Investigation department – just like Homicide or Special Victims. Unless that happened, Mac believed his only opportunity for advancement would be in a private, independent lab.

He thrived as a cop. Whenever Claire mentioned working in a private lab, his eyes glazed over. He liked the thrill of the chase, the hunt for the elusive solution to a puzzle. He got a charge putting away bad guys. The adrenaline rush kept him motivated in his quest for answers; he never let a case go until it was solved. He was born to be a cop, and Claire guessed that Mac would stay put even if the lab went away.

Still, he had ambitions. He had even shared with her a written proposal that he wanted to submit to the higher-ups. In it, he had made his case for an independent division that didn't answer to detectives that didn't know science. Integrity and honesty were crucial to a well-respected lab and independence was essential to do that. Claire had reviewed the first draft with a businesswoman's critical eye. She had marked it up with a red pen and flat-out discouraged him from submitting it. The budget, she had told him, undercut his entire argument. It was too small for what he wanted to do, and unless he built in growth prospects – and with that, an increased budget – the whole point of the Lab could be absorbed by another division. Mac had hesitated – the Brass was fraught with budget cuts; they wouldn't approve anything expensive. If he could just get the lab, he could prove its worth and growth could come later, he had argued. Claire had shaken her head. _You need to knock this out of the park, Mac. It's not worth burning political capital for a single. _Reluctantly he had agreed.

Claire forced her mind back to the task at hand. She needed to unpack. She opened one of the boxes and began to organize the binders and files. When her telephone rang, she leaned over, balancing on one leg. "Claire Taylor," she announced.

"Mac Taylor," she heard on the other side of the line.

She gushed, "Thank you for the flowers. They were sitting on my desk when I walked in this morning. I was sure they couldn't be for me."

"They're for you," he said. She could hear the smile in his voice. "How's the new office?"

"I have a view that's amazing. It's so much better than my cubicle." He chuckled quietly. "This day is going to be shot. Completely unproductive since all I'll do is unpack. That means, I can get out early. What about you?"

"What do you have in mind?" he replied.

"Dinner? To celebrate?"

"Dinner," he stated. "Absolutely. Where should we go? It's my treat."

"I would like …" Claire wrinkled her nose and said, "You know what I want?"

"What's that?"

"I want you to pick up Chinese and a couple beers and we sit inside and watch a movie. It would be so much better than fighting the crowds."

"You got it," Mac said, a smile in his voice. "Love you…"

* * *

Even from his windowless office, Mac knew it was dark outside. He hadn't seen the sunlight today, holed up reviewing DNA profiles since the pre-dawn hours. He turned in his chair, frowning at his luck that today, of all days, would be the day Jane needed to be in court. He really could have used her help. Still, three reference books later and the application of cutting-edge techniques he learned about in school, Mac thought he had made some progress. The only problem was that it was now 9 at night, and the Chinese food he had promised his wife had not even been ordered.

He turned in his chair and picked up the telephone. He should have called Claire hours ago. She picked up on the third ring, and Mac could hear her irritation in the greeting. He explained himself, it was a tough case, they needed a lead, and Jane was out so … "Fine," she interrupted impatiently. "How much longer then?" she asked.

"I can probably get out within an hour."

"Okay," she sighed. "Well, I'll be in bed. I have an early meeting tomorrow." Mac scratched at his nose and nodded silently. "Okay?" she asked.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"I'll just grab a sandwich," she said irritably. He chewed his lip and began to apologize. She hung up the phone. Mac exhaled and then looked at the work on this desk. Fifteen hours and this is what he had to show of it. _Christ, _he mumbled to himself. It was hardly a lead, Mac acknowledged. Barely enough to follow up on, and certainly not enough for a warrant. And now his wife was mad, and understandably so. Mac set his pen down with a clatter and ran his hands over his face.

"Burning the midnight oil, I see," Quinn interrupted from the doorway. He shrugged. "At least the nine o'clock oil. I thought you were off a few hours ago."

"I was," he said. "I was trying to find a matching DNA profile but only these alleles are matching."

She looked over at his work. "Signifying a biological match," she said. He nodded. "That's good, isn't it?"

"It could be. But it's like tracking down a needle in a haystack because the biological relative isn't in the system, and since it doesn't match this one precisely, our computers won't spit out a hit." He exhaled. "If there even _is _a hit."

"Bummer," Quinn said. Then she smiled. "And how long did it take you to discover that your DNA sample is essentially useless?"

"Fifteen hours," he said grumpily. Quinn laughed a little and sat on the edge of his desk. Mac arched an eyebrow. He respected Quinn – she was a smart perfectionist and Mac was a better criminalist because she challenged him. It had taken a while for any bonds to form – Mac liked his privacy and Quinn liked to invade it – but little by little, she had managed to chip away at his wall. She never asked about Claire and Mac never relayed too much information. But, she told him about her boyfriend and the fact that she hoped she would get a ring in the next few months. And then things got busy at work, and the boyfriend didn't get it, and next thing you know, Quinn was nursing a bad break-up and Mac found himself consoling her. He told her about Claire and that when you find the one you're supposed to marry, you'll know. And just like that, they were friends as well as colleagues.

Still, right now, she was on the corner of his desk and he didn't like it. He stood up. "I'm … I'm trying to pack up," he said, nodding towards her. She was sitting on a notebook he needed.

"You going home?" she asked, still not moving.

He nodded. "Excuse me," he said. "I need to –"

"Is Claire mad?" she interrupted.

Mac blinked in surprise. "Why would she be mad?"

"Because you've been working like a dog."

"She works too, you know," Mac defended. Quinn nodded. She looked bemused. Her expression said, _Not as much as you_. "Look, nine's early. If I hurry, I just might see her before she goes to bed. So …" He pointed towards the notebook that she was sitting on.

"Oh," she said, standing up. "You want me to get up." Mac nodded. She smoothed her pants beneath her hands, skimming them over her hips. "You should have said something." Mac ignored her, reaching for the notebook and two manila folders and tucking them into his bag. "If you leave with work, you better not touch it," she said, her eyes sparkling beneath the order. "Not if you're trying to spend time with your wife." She leaned forward as she whispered the last bit, her body language suggestive.

He shrugged a single shoulder. "Maybe I'll have insomnia."

She snorted and turned to leave. She stopped in the doorway and leaned in, one arm on the doorjamb. "Good night, detective," she whispered coyly. Her words were innocent but her tone was anything but. It no longer made him uncomfortable. He was used to her by now. Mac nodded. He lift his hand in a wave, his eyes planted on his bag.

* * *

He unlocked the door to their apartment, pleased to find Claire tucked into the corner of their sofa. She was eating ice cream out of the carton, watching a police procedural on television. "Hey," he said cheerfully, holding up two bags of Chinese food.

"Oh my god," Claire said sarcastically. "Intruder alert. Intruder alert. I better call my husband." Mac frowned. "Oh wait. That's you. Sorry. I didn't recognize you." Chagrined, Mac walked to the sofa and leaned over to kiss her lips. "It's good to see you," she said, a crooked smile on her face. She reached for the Chinese food and set it on the coffee table. "I guess I had dessert first."

"Did you eat that sandwich?" he asked.

"No," she laughed. "Just ice cream."

Mac laughed but plopped down on the sofa beside her, and she offered the ice cream carton. He shook his head. "You've been way too busy," she said.

"I know," he acknowledged. "I'm sorry," he said after a beat. "I lost track of time, and today's a big day for you. My bad."

"Oh stop apologizing," she said. "Didn't you learn in that Catholic school education of yours that a true apology means a fervent desire to change the behavior?" Mac laughed. "You're officially a workaholic, so I just have to deal with that." Mac opened his mouth to protest but she cut him off. "Besides, it's not like you're cavorting with another woman. You're working. Earning an income. Coming home to me every night. I guess I can deal." She set the near empty ice cream carton on the coffee table.

"But?" Mac pressed.

She snuggled closer to him. "But it would be nice to see you a little more." He nodded and let his fingers trace circles on her bare shoulder. She muted the television, and they were quiet for a while. "Your mother called," Claire announced, breaking the silence.

"And?"

"And she's agreed to come out for Easter." Mac arched his eyebrows. "I know. It startled me too. Your cousin … Paul? Is that his name?" Mac nodded. "He's driving her to the airport. She already has that part figured out. So, I guess we need to sort out where she'll stay. I'm a little uncomfortable having her camp out on the sofa." He nodded. "I was thinking …" Mac waited. "Maybe she should stay with my parents. They have that whole guest suite she could have."

"Yeah…" Mac hesitated though. "It's far from here, though, so we'd have to get out to Brooklyn a lot."

"You're taking time off, aren't you? We'd have time." Mac hesitated. "Babe," she scolded, turning to face him. "This is your mother's first trip out of state in her entire life."

"She's been to Indiana," Mac deadpanned, referring to the state that was less than ten miles from his childhood home.

"You have _got _to be kidding me," Claire retorted in irritation, ready to stand up.

"Alright, alright," he said quietly. "Stand down, coach." He gestured with his hand and she settled next to him. "I'll try to take some time off." She clenched her jaw and gave him a look. He revised his answer. "I'll take time off." She nodded, satisfied for the moment.

Mac stood up and moved to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, crouching to find something in the back. "You hungry for dinner?" she asked. Mac didn't reply, finally pulling out a bottle of white wine. Claire watched from the sofa as Mac uncorked the bottle and filled two glasses. He handed one to her over the couch, and she asked, "What's the occasion?"

"Your promotion and the fact that we're both home before eleven," Mac replied, still standing behind her, the glass in one hand. Claire smiled and sipped at the wine. Mac massaged one of her shoulders with his free hand. Claire smiled and reached up to squeeze his hand. She linked her fingers with his and then he said, "Give me ten minutes. I need a shower and then I'll meet you back here."

She laughed coyly, nodding towards the bed in their one-room apartment. "I'll meet you there," she said.

"Eight minutes then," Mac winked.

* * *

Mac stood in the shower and let the hot water run over his head. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, leaning his head back so the water pelted his face. He loved his nightly shower, and the way it relaxed him. He thought he heard a noise and he peeked his head out of the shower curtain. Claire was standing there, peeling off her camisole and shimmying out of her pajama pants. He smiled a little as she commented, "Eight minutes seemed like an awfully long time."

"Then come 'ere," Mac said, holding the curtain open. "Before the water gets cold." She stepped into the shower and wrapped her arms around Mac's neck. "What happened to dinner?" he asked.

"It's in the frig. We can eat after we've worked up an appetite." He chuckled a little. She stood on her tiptoes and Mac's hands found her waist. She pressed her lips against his. "I've missed you," she whispered into his mouth. Mac nodded, vowing to do better. "Make it up to me." she ordered.


End file.
